


The Hecht Formula Affair

by Jazline



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26413336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: More than a year after successfully completing The Pützen Compound Affair, Peter Hecht surfaced!
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

_Napoleon Solo woke on a padded table, wrists and ankles secured in soft, lambswool-lined cuffs. His limbs had not been pulled taut; not like Thrush at all. There was a little leeway to flex his shoulders, knees and elbows, but not enough to free himself by reaching the buckles with his teeth. His wrists pulled overhead and held apart by separate manacles, preventing one hand from assisting the other in escape.  
  
He knew all this before even opening his eyes. He wanted as accurate an assessment of his situation as possible before showing wakefulness.  
  
Quiet voices in the distance became apparent. Two voices - one male, one female. He listened intently. The male’s voice he did not recognize, but the female’s...  
  
A slight chill swept over him. He opened his eyes a little to look down at his chest - no shirt. He then raised his head slightly to look at the lower half of his body, noticing that he was dressed in a pair of lightweight green trousers - hospital scrubs.  
  
All it took was a few moments for him to recall the incidents leading up to his current situation.  
  
Damn!  
  
What pissed Napoleon Solo off even more than his immediate predicament was the fact that Gabriella Massamino had duped him._   
  


**Several Days Earlier**  
  
“So, Mr. Solo, am I correct in assuming that you are well acquainted with Miss Massamino?” Alexander Waverly asked, reiterating his original question.  
  
Napoleon did not even need to look at his partner, Illya Kuryakin, to see the smirk on his face.  
  
“I guess... uh... I am guilty as charged,” Solo replied, clearing his throat. He understood the ramifications of the Old Man’s accusations. “But it was all within the line of duty,” he finally added.  
  
Waverly ‘harrumphed’ not too quietly. “Naturally.”  
  
There was several moments of awkward silence while the UNCLE chief perused, or pretended to peruse, the file on Gabriella Massamino. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin were willing to interrupt their boss. Finally, Waverly spoke.  
  
“Fortunately for you, Mr. Solo, Miss Massamino has been swayed by your positive influences...”  
  
Illya partially shielded his face from his boss’ line of vision, trying to hide his reaction.  
Positive influences, indeed!  
  
“...and she has decided to leave Thrush,” Waverly continued.  
  
Napoleon looked genuinely surprised. “And why would she do that?”  
  
“I believe our old friend Gabriella has had a falling out with her superior, Stefan Osbourne, about two weeks ago,” Kuryakin chimed in. He paused a few seconds and tilted his head. “Don’t you keep up with the latest Thrush gossip?”  
  
Solo flashed a toothy smile. “Actually, I heard that she smoothed things over with Osbourne, but he was moving on to greener pastures and dumped her instead...”  
  
“Gentlemen,” Alexander Waverly interrupted, “You’re both several days behind the facts. Gabriella Massamino recently lost a close personal friend... um, one Carlton Collins, whom Stefan Osbourne thought was an enemy infiltrator trying to pry information from her. Collins wasn’t a threat to either Osbourne or Thrush, but he was eliminated regardless.”  
  
Napoleon Solo shook his head and turned towards Illya. “We spend two days in Nevada finding and destroying a Thrush satrap in the middle of nowhere... and look what we miss.”  
  
“Perhaps we need a more sophisticated communications system,” Kuryakin lamented. He looked up at his boss, a slight twinkle in his eye. “This type of delay in pertinent data could prove disastrous.”  
  
Waverly actually chuckled. “All joking aside, Miss Massamino has decided to leave her position in Thrush and has requested relocation and a new identity.”  
  
“In exchange for...?” Illya asked.  
  
“Information, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
Napoleon took a breath then sighed. “And how is that going to involve us, sir?” He already knew the answer.  
  
“Miss Massamino has requested that you be the one to bring her in from the cold, Mr. Solo. She said she knows you and trusts you... and only you.”  
  
The CEA smiled a little. “And we believe her?”  
  
“Not as far as we can throw her,” Waverly replied. “That’s why sending you AND Mr. Kuryakin to deal with this.” The old man drew a deep breath and sat back, interlacing his fingers and gazing at Napoleon through squinted eyelids. “Just how ...er... familiar were you with Miss Massamino?” He neglected to add the social amenity ‘...if you don’t mind me asking.’  
  
“She intended to seduce me to pry some deep dark UNCLE secrets from me,” Solo responded without skipping a beat. He suppressed the grin just itching to spread across his face. “But I knew who she was and anticipated her objectives. So I basically turned the tables and gleaned some valuable information from her during our encounter.”  
  
“Just one encounter?” Waverly questioned.  
  
Napoleon shook his head. “No. She had more to offer than I originally bargained on, so we met on three more occasions.”  
  
Illya looked away, avoiding eye contact with either his partner or his boss.  
  
“And these _meetings_ took place...?” the Old Man prompted.  
  
“In Lisbon,” the CEA replied before pausing a few seconds. “...and Sweden... and London, and ...uh... then Lisbon again.”  
  
A short silence followed. Waverly obviously was mentally tracking Solo’s recent work roster.  
  
“...about three months ago,” Solo continued, knowing his boss wanted the timeline. “Is that when her trouble at Thrush began?”  
  
“According to Miss Massamino, yes. I can now assume that she planned your trysts to set the stage for her defection from Thrush. Although her plea seems sincere, I’m suggesting you tread carefully. She is requesting to rendezvous with you, Mr. Solo, in France. Arrangements have been made for Mr. Kuryakin and your flights to Orly Airport this evening. You’ll be taking the ‘red-eye’ into Orly, and should land approximately 8 am Paris time tomorrow morning.”  
  
“I assume she requested Napoleon arrive alone,” Kuryakin surmised.  
  
“Of course, as though we’d be foolish enough to accommodate her request. You, Mr. Kuryakin, will be his invisible back-up. We have a safe-house set up for her in Arles, Her new identity along with the appropriate documentation is now available.” Waverly held up one of the manilla envelopes scattered on his conference table. “I will leave the specifics to you both.” The old man nodded and reached for his pipe. Then he waved a dismissive gesture, indicating he was finished.  
  
Knowing the meeting was over, both Illya and Napoleon stood up to leave.  
  
“We don’t yet know her ulterior motive in this affair,” Alexander Waverly added, “so please be careful, gentlemen.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
The Air France jet landed at Orly International Airport fifteen minutes early. Good tailwinds over the Atlantic that night. Illya Kuryakin deplaned first, planning to give the receiving gate a quick security check-over before Napoleon disembarked.  
  
The Russian was traveling in disguise. His pale blond hair was tinted a shade of auburn and combed back off his face, and topped off with a green and yellow tartan beret. He sported a bushy mustache. The tweed sports jacket with leather “patches” at the elbow hid the UNCLE Special he holstered beneath it. He carried a rolled-up newspaper in his jacket pocket.  
  
Napoleon was freshly showered and shaved. Subtle cologne surrounded him. He wore a pinstripe suit with a pale blue long-sleeved shirt. Silver cufflinks revealed themselves beneath the cuffs of the jacket. A red tie finished off the outfit. Impeccable. The object of all the stewardess’ attentions.  
  
His black trench coat remained in the overhead cabin during the flight, neatly folded to avoid unnecessary wrinkling.  
  
Throughout the flight, they sat in separate rows and made no visible contact with each other. They wanted no one on board the flight to make any connection between the two of them.  
  
Upon leaving the aircraft, Illya scanned the crowd waiting at Gate 15. His mental rolodex found no immediate matches of Thrush personnel, which, of course, did not account for any newbies he had not yet encountered.  
  
Seated in the fourth row on the left was a woman wearing a black linen suit, reading the morning’s _Le Monde_. Although she seemed engrossed in the “Business” section, Illya observed her eyes wandering to the stream of passengers disembarking the flight.  
  
Gabriella Massamino.  
  
Illya recognized her despite the dark glasses and change of hair color. She had been a redhead the last time they met. Now she was a blonde.  
  
The Russian observed her a bit longer, looking to see if she made eye contact with anyone else in the immediate area. No one. Her attention shifted from her newspaper to the passengers leaving the plane.  
  
Finally the woman stood up and gathered her carry-on bag, just as any ordinary traveler would have. Illya turned his attention to the disembarking passengers and saw his partner exit the departure ramp. He was now wearing his black trench coat. Dark glasses covered his eyes as well. The collar of his coat was turned up slightly to keep him somewhat incognito but noticeable to his mark. It worked.  
  
Napoleon immediately noticed Gabriella Massamino and veered towards her.  
  
“Bonjour Madames et Monsieurs,” the loud speaker began. The speaker prattled off her announcement in French and then in English. “Flight 254 to Stockholm will be loading in approximately one half hour from gate 15. Anyone with stand-by tickets, please come up to the counter now.”  
  
To Illya, it seemed like a surprisingly large number of people stood up to advance upon the announcer, but on cue, about 25 people began surging towards him, cutting off the path between him and his partner. The Russian tried side-stepping to circumvent the crowd, but they seemed to be converging from all parts of the waiting area.  
  
Kuryakin moved quickly, standing on tiptoes every few seconds to see above the heads of the crowd. It was moments like this that he cursed his short stature. He finally caught sight of the two black-clad figures walking towards the exit. The man, his partner, had a protective arm around the woman as he ushered her out of the waiting area.  
  


  
  
“Do you have him in sight?” Kuryakin whispered. His communicator was discreetly wrapped in his newspaper and held close to his lips. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of Napoleon and Massamino.  
  
“Confirmed!” responded one of the other Section Agents dispatched from UNCLE Paris. “I assume they have no luggage, since they’re bypassing the baggage area and heading straight towards the exit.  
  
Illya was glad they had made arrangements to by-pass Orly’s Customs and Immigration lines by making this their second flight within France, passing through Customs during their first. Having entered Orly as a domestic flight simplified their departure from the airport.  
  
“Good! Keep them in sight.”  
  
Another voice chimed in. “They appear to be hailing a taxi.”  
  
“What?” Illya barked into his communicator. “That wasn’t part of the arrangement. DuBois was supposed to pick them up and head towards Arles!” Kuryakin quickened his step towards the exit. “Where the hell is DuBois?”  
  
There was a short silence.  
  
“Where the hell is he?” Illya barked again as he pushed his way through the glass doors to the taxi stand.  
  
“Obviously not here,” the same voice answered. “Something’s wrong.”  
  
Illya left the glass doors to see Napoleon and Gabriella Massamino close the cab door and watched them drive away. His only hope was that Gerald DuBois, their UNCLE contact at Orly, was driving the cab.  
  
The Russian ran to hail the next cab in the queue.  
  
“Follow that cab!” he ordered in French. “And step on it. I’ll double your fare if you don’t lose him!”  
  
The force of cabbie’s departure from the curb caused Illya to flop back in his seat. He immediately activated his communicator and asked for an overseas’ channel.  
  
“We have a problem, sir!” Illya rasped to Alexander Waverly. “Procedures are not being followed and DuBois is no where in sight. Please see if you can raise him. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”  
  
“One moment,” Waverly instructed as be began an active search for Gerald DuBois.  
  
Then the old man’s voice returned to the communicator. “DuBois can't be raised. Please report what happened, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
Illya offered an explanation while the cabbie took him a wild ride out of the airport, not once losing sight of their quarry. Kuryakin was not worried about being spotted as a tail. It was rush hour and no one would even take notice of a cab scurrying towards the city from the airport.  
  
“I’m activating my tracing beacon, Sir,” Kuryakin said. “Have whatever agents UNCLE Paris can spare hone in on me. I don’t know what happened, but something definitely went wrong.”  
  
The cabbie sped North towards Paris, still hot on the tail of the taxi carrying Napoleon Solo and Gabriella Massamino. Illya sat forward, as if his position would hurry their vehicle along. The Russian kept an active dialog going with the driver, helping navigate through the rush hour mess.  
  
They finally crossed the Seine. Kuryakin was so intent on watching traffic he lost sight of which bridge they had just traversed. But as the cab veered on to Rue Pierre Demours, Illya recognized their location.  
  
The forward cab slowed down as it neared Rue Marguerite, stopping curbside beneath a wide, impressive red awning. Hotel Arc de Triomphe. Kuryakin’s cab screeched to a halt directly behind the first one, and the agent was out of the door in a flash after tossing the fee and a very generous tip on the front seat for the driver.  
  
The occupants of the first cab left the vehicle leisurely, the man in the black trench coat exiting first and offering his arm to the lady in the black linen suit.  
  
Illya stopped dead in his tracks when they turned to face the Russian and he saw that the two of them were complete strangers.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
The UNCLE Paris team rendezvoused with Kuryakin seconds after he arrived at L’Arc de Triomphe Hotel.  
  
“Damn! We lost him!” Illya muttered under his breath.  
  
He ordered the team to take him back to the airport, where they would retrace their steps and try to figure out what happened to Napoleon Solo and Gabriella Massamino.  
  
On route, he went over every detail of the departure. He watched his partner deplane at Orly’s Gate 15. He had seen Massamino get up when she saw Solo, and then saw the two of them meet. The untimely announcement for the stand-by travelers caused a sudden surge of people, obviously the only time a switch could have been made.  
  
Illya was working on a hunch. He assumed Thrush would not choose to transport an either unconscious or unwilling Napoleon Solo a great distance through the airport, making the exit with him as close to their original gate as possible. That was where they would begin - at Gate 15.  
  
“I need to know all the connecting flights from Orly, especially those originating from areas around Gate 15, Southern Terminal,” Illya barked into his communicator while one of his UNCLE Paris agents careened back to the airport.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Illya and the UNCLE Paris team huddled over spreadsheets in the Orly Airport Executive Office. Once establishing their credentials, the head of operations was more than happy to oblige them with whatever information they needed.  
  
“Your flight landed at 8:10 am,” Yves Reloux, the head man at Orly began. “Which means you deplaned by 8:30.”  
  
“Correct,” Kuryakin affirmed. “I left the plane first to survey the area, and Solo followed approximately five minutes after me.”  
  
Reloux looked over the sheets, squinting at the detailed information. “Hmmm. If your assumption is correct, the flights departing from the surrounding gates were as follows: The Bordeaux via Nantes flight left from Gate 14 at 9:06, The Copenhagen via Amsterdam flight left from Gate 13 at am, a direct flight to Sarajevo left from Gate 16 at 9:30, and finally, a flight to Malaga via Madrid was supposed to leave at 9:15, but is still on the tarmac. Our runway has become a bit backed-up.”  
  
“This is like looking for a needle in a haystack!” Illya muttered. “Can you check for an incapacitated passenger being taken aboard any flight leaving from the immediate area?”  
  
Yves Reloux picked up a telephone receiver and motioned for the UNCLE team to wait a moment. He contacted the command tower and requested information about a passenger - any passenger - being brought aboard any flight either under duress or not on his own volition. In the matter of minutes, he got his response. Lufthansa Flight 202, headed for Stockholm via Berlin, had departed Orly at 9 am sharp. From Gate 22. And on board was one heavily sedated handsome dark-haired man in a black trench coat, accompanied by a stunning blonde in a black linen suit.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
A helicopter was readied in the matter of minutes.  
  
“Their destinations at the moment are either Berlin or Stockholm,” Illya informed Mr. Waverly as the UNCLE team ran on board the chopper.  
  
“I recommend you head to Berlin for expedience, Mr. Kuryakin,” the Old Man advised. “We’ll have a team meet the plane when it lands. I will also request the airplane not be allowed to continue its journey to Stockholm until we have either found Mr. Solo or searched it thoroughly. Our Stockholm office will manage the affair from their end if necessary.”  
  
“Very good, sir!” The helicopter pilot looked at Kuryakin for the OK to take off. The Russian curtly nodded and they lifted off the ground. “We’re headed for Berlin, Germany,” he informed the pilot.  
  


  
  
By the time Illya Kuryakin’s helicopter landed in Berlin, the Lufthansa flight had been sitting on the tarmac for an hour and a half, with impatient passengers waiting to continue their flight to Stockholm. Illya got updates on the flight roster while enroute. Approximately 70% of the original passengers were continuing on the last leg of the journey, leaving the remaining 30% to disembark in Berlin. Alexander Waverly had requested the passengers continuing on not be allowed to leave the aircraft, and the travelers from Berlin to Stockholm who had not yet boarded remain in the terminal until he personally gave the ‘all clear’ for take-off.  
  
UNCLE Berlin’s team was already on board the still aircraft when Illya arrived. The Russian recognized four of the six agents going through the plane, interviewing passengers, checking every nook and cranny from the cockpit to the cargo hold. Their search came up fruitless.  
  
“He’s not here,” Jirke Ingersoll, the man heading up the team, informed the Russian.  
  
“What do you mean ‘he’s not here’?” Illya repeated to the tall, lanky Swede, annoyed with the outcome. “He has to be. He boarded the plane in France. He couldn’t have just disappeared.”  
  
“Several people remember seeing him during the flight... both of them, as a matter of fact. But towards the end, about fifteen minutes before landing, people said he was escorted to the bathroom and never returned to his seat.”  
  
“And they didn’t find that unusual?” Illya asked curtly. “Do I need to question everyone myself?”  
  
“No, Mr. Kuryakin. We did a thorough job of interviewing everyone in his immediate vicinity. They all claimed he was ill throughout the flight. When he was taken away, no one gave it a second thought. They assumed he was being taken to an area to lie down.”  
  
“Lie down aboard an aircraft?” Illya was becoming irate.  
  
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Mr. Kuryakin,” Ingersoll shot back. “First Class is upstairs, with lounges and areas to recline should the need arise. No one on board suspects anything more than the people with him trying to help.”  
  
“Then I am to assume you checked the upstairs area?” Illya asked, as he turned to investigate the first class lounge himself.  
  
“With a fine-toothed comb, Mr. Kuryakin,” Ingersoll assured him. “He is nowhere to be found.”  
  
“Has anyone other than the disembarking passengers entered or left the aircraft?”  
  
“Only the maintenance crew, cleaning out the bathrooms and restocking the galley...” Jirke Ingersoll’s eyes opened wide. “Damn!”  
  
Illya Kuryakin immediately read Ingersoll’s mind. The galley. Maintenance restocked food, usually rolling in filled thermal lockers before removing the empty ones. The empty ones. Large enough to perhaps cram a semi-conscious 5’10” man into.  
  
The Russian hurried to an empty seat by a window to look down on the tarmac. Vehicles were scurrying around with the usual hustle-bustle of an international airport. Nothing seemed out of character. He flopped down in the seat and buried his head in his hands for a brief moment.  
  
“I assume they had clearance,” Illya lamented. “...but what are the odds we find out that several of the bona fide airport employees have recently been somewhat incapacitated.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Napoleon Solo woke on a padded table, wrists and ankles secured in soft, lambswool-lined cuffs. His limbs had not been pulled taut; not like Thrush at all. There was a little leeway to flex his shoulders, knees and elbows, but not enough to free himself by reaching the buckles with his teeth. His wrists pulled overhead and held apart by separate manacles, preventing one hand from assisting the other in escape.  
  
He knew all this before even opening his eyes. He wanted as accurate an assessment of his situation as possible before showing wakefulness.  
  
Quiet voices in the distance became apparent. Two voices - one male, one female. He listened intently. The male’s voice he did not recognize, but the female’s...  
  
A slight chill swept over him. He opened his eyes a little to look down at his chest - no shirt. He then raised his head slightly to look at the lower half of his body, noticing that he was dressed in a pair of lightweight green trousers - hospital scrubs.  
  
All it took was a few moments for him to recall the incidents leading up to his current situation.  
  
Damn!  
  
What pissed Napoleon Solo off even more than his immediate predicament was the fact that Gabriella Massamino had duped him.  
  
Gabriella Massamino -the female voice in the distance - the woman who met him at Orly International Airport’s Gate 15 - the woman who purposefully mislead... or rather, lead... Napoleon Solo into her trap.  
  
He closed his eyes again. Fortunately, neither Massamino nor the man she was with noticed that he had awaken. He figured that would afford him a few more precious moments to collect his thoughts.  
  
Thoughts drifted back to Orly. Yes, Gabriella Massamino was in the waiting area. He remembered that she rose to meet him after disembarking the aircraft. He remembered moving up to her and planting a small peck on the cheek. Then came the announcement over the Public Address System, informing all the passengers on stand-by to come to the desk for seating assignments.  
  
That’s when his troubles began.

The swarm of people surrounded him and Massamino, more people than should have responded to the stand-by notice. Someone had kicked him behind the knees, forcing his legs to buckle beneath him. Before he could even react to the assault he was subdued on the floor and someone jabbed a hypodermic needle into his right thigh.  
  
It took only seconds for his strength to wane, leaving him laying helpless.  
  
Gabriella was nonchalantly looking around, then knelt down beside him once another woman in a black linen suit began walking away. A man in a black trench coat escorted her.  
  
Solo looked around frantically for his partner, and closed his eyes in desperation when he saw Illya Kuryakin shouldering his way through the throngs of people in pursuit of the two black-clad people.  
  
The perfect switch had taken place.  
  
By the time the crowds had passed, “help” with a wheelchair had arrived and removed Napoleon Solo from Gate 15, taking the rather ill-looking agent and his dramatically worried female companion to Gate 22.  
  
The details about getting on the aircraft were fuzzy. He remembered being wheeled on board and with the help of several stewards, being seated in the front near the stairs leading up to the First Class section. The drugs were strong, rendering him completely helpless, unable to either move or speak.  
  
By this time, Illya Kuryakin had been long gone.

* * * * *

  
  
“We’ve begun an all-out search for Mr. Solo,” Frederich Leydendecker informed Illya Kuryakin, while the Russian impatiently tapped his fingers on the UNCLE Berlin Section One Chief’s conference table. Jirke Ingershol and five of his Section Two agents were also present.  
  
Kuryakin had been at headquarters all of twenty minutes and he was already jumping out of his skin, impatient with the lack of immediate results. Leydendecker had tactfully reminded him that they were not the New York Headquarters, and although their resources were equally as efficient, there may be slight differences.  
  
Illya thought that perhaps Berlin had been a bad choice. But all the indicators pointed towards Solo being taken West of Paris. Frederich Leydendecker had immediately ordered his Intelligence Department to work on possible leads, and their information predicted the westward movement.  
  
Now it was only a matter of waiting... waiting until some shred of information leading  
to Solo’s exact whereabouts surfaced.  
  
Illya was not good at waiting. And everyone around him knew it.  
  


* * * * *

  
Napoleon Solo realized he’d have to ‘wake up’ eventually, just as did his captors.  
  
“Aah, so you’ve finally decided to join the living, Napoleon,” a female voice cooed as it neared the UNCLE CEA. “You took your good old time, eh?” A hint of Italian tinged her tone.  
  
Solo pulled a face a struggled slightly against his restraints.  
  
“And here I thought we were on better terms than this, Gabriella,” Napoleon sighed dramatically as he eyeballed the manacles. He suddenly flashed a smile. “Unless you’re into kinky sex now.” He wiggled his eyebrows.  
  
She smirked. “Not at the moment, darling. But perhaps later...”  
  
A male “coughed” to interrupt their conversation. He began walking towards the padded table.  
  
“Oh, how rude of me, Napoleon. Allow me to make the formal introductions.” She turned to slightly towards the man and swept her hand from the newcomer to Napoleon. “Napoleon, I’d like you to meet Peter Hecht. Peter... Napoleon.”  
  
Solo masterfully avoided a look of complete astonishment on his face.

  
  
_Peter Hecht. It was a name he’d become acquainted with many months before during the Pützen Compound Affair, but he had never actually met the man. He only knew of him through Franz Kaufmann, the maniacal disciplinarian at Pützen who tortured both him and Kuryakin.  
  
Peter Hecht. Franz Kaufmann’s friend, the friend who developed an anti-anesthetic serum which had been used twice on Kuryakin while in Pützen.  
  
The drug - the bright green serum - caused Illya countless hours of torment, and if Solo’s memory served him correctly, Franz Kaufmann had no idea how much of it to administer. He injected such high doses of the drug in Illya that the Russian’s body literally shut down, leaving him catatonic.  
  
But the piéce de resistance was the fact that Napoleon Solo, posing as Thrush chief Erich Von Koeinghoffer, banished both Peter Hecht and Franz Kaufmann to a remote Thrush outpost in the outer reaches of Siberia. UNCLE had lost contact with the two men since their change of venue.  
  
And now here he was in the flesh. Peter Hecht._   
  


Inwardly, Napoleon smirked. This was all beginning to make sense. Hecht’s sweet revenge. Only Solo was not sure whether or not Hecht truly knew about the Von Koeinghoffer masquerade. His planned to ‘play it by ear’.  
  
“So to what do I owe this honor?” Solo asked Hecht as nonchalantly as possible. “You both seemed to have gone through a lot of trouble to get me here. A simple engraved invitation would have been sufficient.”  
  
Hecht moved to Napoleon and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be studying the UNCLE CEA for a moment before deciding to speak. He poked and prodded several areas on Solo’s body then nodded his head.  
  
“Yes. You look perfect,” Hecht finally said.  
  
“I usually do,” Napoleon boasted, smiling.  
  
Gabriella came over and brushed hair off Solo’s forehead. “I don’t think that’s what he meant, my dear,” she whispered.  
  
Napoleon pulled again against the bonds. “Is all this really necessary? This is quite uncomfortable, you realize.”  
  
“I’m afraid so, Napoleon,” she responded. “Peter doesn’t trust you at all, and me?... I know how strong and capable you are...” Gabriella ran her hands along the muscles of both upper arms, “...and although you are quite thrilling to ...uh... be with, I don’t trust you either.”  
  
“Well then, I assume you brought me here for a reason. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Napoleon insisted.  
  
“As you wish, Mr. Solo,” Peter Hecht granted as he turned towards a wheeled stainless steel table holding a sterile tray covered with a cloth.  
  
He lifted the cloth and brought out a vial of green serum, followed by a hypodermic needle.  
  
“This is why I brought you here.”  
  
“...and...?” Solo prompted.  
  
“You don’t recognize this?”  
  
“Should I?”  
  
“This is my invention, my life’s work.”  
  
“And how is this of any consequence?”  
  
“I wanted to test this out personally on a human subject. Unfortunately, this is not one of those drugs which was created for the betterment of mankind, and finding a suitable guinea pig was not an easy choice. Test subjects are not exactly lined up at my door for medical trials. As you know, my friend Franz used it on your partner, but at that point in my studies I had no information governing the quantity to administer. Well, the effects on Mr. Kuryakin were invaluable in determining how much was a safer level. Fortunate for you, I would say. As a result, you will be getting smaller doses.”  
  
“... and you chose me because...?”  
  
“It’s payback time, Mr. Solo. You had me sent to Northern Russia to some Godforsaken outpost where I spent three months of my life freezing my ass off.”  
  
“I had you sent?” Solo asked incredulously.  
  
“Come on now, Napoleon. Drop the ‘innocent’ act. Both you and I know you took Erich Von Koeinghoffer’s place at the Pützen Compound, and you were responsible for sending Franz Kaufmann and me to Russia.”  
  
“That’s impossible. How on earth could I have done that?”  
  
Peter Hecht smirked.  
  
 _He’s not really sure_ , Napoleon realized.  
  
“There was a period of several weeks when Von Koeinghoffer literally dropped off the face of the earth. No one at Thrush had any idea where he was.”  
  
Napoleon sighed. “And from what I heard, that’s not too uncommon for Von Koeinghoffer. He’s a tough man to keep track of.” He chuckled. “Even at UNCLE we have difficulty keeping tabs on him. What’s he up to now, anyway?”  
  
“We both know UNCLE kidnapped him somewhere along the line and replaced him with you.”  
  
“Be realistic, Hecht. I’m sure Kaufmann kept you abreast of my condition as he beat me half to death. You realize, of course, that I was out of commission for several months after leaving Pützen. Doesn’t your Intelligence Department ... or is that an oxymoron with Thrush... keep you up to date on UNCLE’s agents?”  
  
“That’s not exactly what we heard. Rumor had it that you were patched up rather quickly and returned to the Compound as Von Koeinghoffer.”  
  
“Well as you just said, it was a rumor. I was in no condition to even crawl out of bed.”  
  
“Where were you taken after leaving Pützen?” Massamino asked.  
  
Napoleon shrugged. “I have no idea. I was unconscious for days. I woke up back in New York.” He lied well.  
  
“New York?” Hecht asked. “We have no data on you being transported back to New York. How did you get out of Germany? For that matter, how did you get out of the Pützen Compound?”  
  
“Like I said,” Solo reiterated, “I don’t know. After having my ribs broken with a baseball bat I blacked out from the pain. That’s the last I remember.”  
  
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Peter sneered. “You never left Germany after being rescued, and you returned undercover as Erich.”  
  
“And what on earth makes you believe that?”  
  
“Once we discovered your partner disguised as a Thrush guard, Von Koeinghoffer appeared AFTER Franz Kaufmann and Josef Chalkler spent days interrogating him. The real Erich Von Koeinghoffer would have wanted to interrogate a prime subject like Kuryakin himself.”  
  
“And how is that UNCLE’s fault?” Solo asked. “Like I said, he’s know for going underground for days, even weeks at a time. Thrush had always given him that latitude.”  
  
“You’re really good at this, Mr. Solo,” Hecht smiled. “If I didn’t know any better, I might almost believe you. But the truth is UNCLE kidnapped Von Koeinghoffer and kept him under wraps while you replaced him.”  
  
“And you’re more dense than you appear.” Napoleon started sounding impatient. “I was in no condition to stand on my own two feet, let alone masquerade as a Thrush Chief. Why would you even consider...?”  
  
“Because Erich Von Koeinghoffer had a complete turn-around from the time he left until he returned several weeks later. He was too... ummm... how shall I put it?... compassionate. Towards Illya Kuryakin. The real Von Koeinghoffer would not have coddled that UNCLE agent.”  
  
“Coddled?”  
  
“Yes. He prohibited Josef Chalkler or Franz Kaufmann from literally laying a finger on Kuryakin. Now doesn’t that sound a little out of character to you?”  
  
“Completely. But if you’re looking to me for an explanation...”  
  
“You are the explanation, Mr. Solo.”  
  
“And you’re completely delusional.”  
  
“Gentlemen,” Gabriella interjected, “this is going nowhere.” She turned towards Peter. “If your hypotheses are correct, he should be singing like a canary in no time.”  
  
Peter Hecht almost snorted. “You’re right, Gabriella. I somehow doubt that Mr. Solo will maintain his story once he starts feeling the ravages of my formula.”  
  
He pulled a latex tourniquet from his lab coat pocket and started wrapping it around Napoleon’s left biceps.  
  
Solo tried pulling away, knowing damn well that he was completely helpless in the restraints.  
  
“I actually become more agreeable when I’m comfortable,” Napoleon said. “I tend to get a little testy when I’m bound hand and foot.”  
  
“Ohhh,” Massamino sighed with mock concern. “Sorry we can’t accommodate you, Napoleon, but I can see to it that this experiment has a few moments of pleasure for you.” She laughed quietly while running her hands over the hair on his chest.  
  
The UNCLE CEA stiffened as the tourniquet was tightened. Peter Hecht gently slapped the main veins running up the left forearm until he found a suitable one to receive the injection.  
  
“I call this drug ‘The Hecht Formula’,” the Thrush scientist said proudly. He filled the syringe with 20 cc of the green serum and began injecting it slowly into Solo’s vein. “...and like I said before, I’ve refined it since it was tested on your partner. You never saw it take effect on your partner so you probably don’t know what to anticipate. Let me fill you in...”  
  
“No, Peter,” Gabriella chuckled. “Perhaps he should find out for himself.”  
  
Napoleon laughed. “You’d better watch your back, Hecht. This bitch will stab a knife in it at her first opportunity.”  
  
Gabriella Massamino slapped him across the face, forcing Solo’s head to jerk to the side with its force.  
  
“Now, now, Gabriella,” Hecht soothed. “You don’t want to cause him too much pain. Not yet, at least. We don’t want his heart to give out too soon, do we? I’ll put him in your capable hands shortly.”  
  
She smiled and nodded, and the two of them left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

“Any word on the whereabouts of Gabriella Massamino?” Kuryakin asked Frederich Leydendecker impatiently.  
  
“No, Mr. Kuryakin,” Leydendecker assure him. “She has not surfaced and no word has filtered in through Intelligence. This has our top priority, you realize. We may have to give it a little time.”  
  
Illya could feel his jaw clenching. “We may not have a little time.” He paced a moment. “Any other Thrush activity which may be of interest?”  
  
Leydendecker pulled several folders from the top of his desk. “Here are lists of Thrush operatives who have caught UNCLE’s attention in the past twelve hours.”  
  
The Russian took the manilla folders and plopped into one of Leydendecker’s chairs. He carefully scanned each name and their geographical locations, then tried calculating where Solo could have ended up ...or could be ending up... in the time since his abduction.  
  
Several operatives were noticeably active in Hong Kong, three in Venezuela... the list went on and on. One name in particular caught his attention. His locale as well.  
  
“Peter Hecht!” Illya said as he stood and took the sheet back to Leydendecker. “I see he has surfaced near the German/Swiss border.”  
  
“Yes. We observed his car crossing the border into Germany yesterday. We tailed him for a while, but then he caught our scent and lost us. We’ve been actively trying to re-establish a location on him.”  
  
“Hmmm. There is a definite motive for Hecht wanting to get Napoleon, and using Gabriella Massamino as the bait seems like a reasonable plan.”  
  
“What motive are you talking about?” Leydendecker wanted to know.  
  
Illya explained the connection between Hecht and Solo, and how the Thrush scientist would harbor a true hatred for Napoleon after having been sent to Siberia for several months.  
  
“I know for a fact that Thrush still does not know exactly what happened during that particular period at Pützen,” Leydendecker assured Kuryakin. “They suspect that Napoleon was put in as a plant for Erich Von Koeinghoffer, but Erich never confessed that he had been kidnapped by UNCLE and returned to the compound just before the computer was destroyed.”  
  
“So Peter Hecht may be acting on rumors, assuming they were true.” Illya paused. “By the way, what ever did happen to Von Koeinghoffer as a result of that affair?”  
  
“Thrush investigated the matter thoroughly, but Von Koeinghoffer never led on he was abducted by us and ultimately responsible for the compound’s destruction. His ego is too big to admit that kind of defeat. So Thrush reduced him in rank and removed all of his autonomy.”  
  
Illya raised his eyebrows. “They let him live?”  
  
“Basically, yes... he has many friends in high places. But he was retained as a lower level Thrush operative. But in the time since his demotion, he has begun clawing his way back up to the top of the heap.”  
  
“Eliminating anyone who gets in his way, I assume.”  
  
“Yes. Saves us the trouble, I guess,” the UNCLE chief smirked. “But back to Peter Hecht... we’re not completely sure where he has settled. We assume he’s still in the southern part of Germany, probably around Munich. His profile does indicate he’s a creature of habit.”  
  
“And being that he is from around that region, he would naturally gravitate to his comfort zone,” Kuryakin surmised.  
  
“Historically, yes.”  
  
Illya rose to leave. “Let me work on it. I assume I have your permission to pursue this as aggressively as I deem necessary.”  
  
“Yes. Of course. See what you can dig up.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
The light bothered him first. The brightness within the room where Napoleon Solo lay seemed to increase in intensity as the seconds ticked on.  
  
 _Doesn’t take very long, does it,_ Solo muttered to himself. Instinctively, he began pulling at his restraints. They didn’t budge.  
  
Then the sounds. Every little drip, tick, creak. Napoleon twisted his neck to look about. The sink’s faucet leaked a little, causing a bothersome continuous sound. The clock was battery-powered, not electrical, and each second clicked away. What sounded like someone walking on a floor above caught his attention - all sounds he had not heard before. Now they were becoming amplified.  
  
His left cheek began to hurt. Gabriella’s slap, which would have been no more than a momentary sting, began to throb. The insides of his cheek began to hurt at the spot where his teeth dug into the flesh during her strike.  
  
Within minutes the lights almost blinded him. He closed his eyelids, but the flesh refused to blot out the glare. The sounds increased. The continuous, repetitive drip and ticks, added to the occasional creaks, increased in their intensity.  
  
The only saving grace was realizing that he was unharmed... for the moment at least. His thoughts drifted to Illya and how awful he must have felt in Pützen when he was given this particular drug. Both times his partner had been injured before the serum was administered, amplifying not only the extraneous lights and sounds, but his pain as well.  
  
Napoleon Solo kept his eyes closed and turned on to his right side with some degree of facility. At least he could cover his ears with his upper arms and block out some of the annoying sounds while shielding his eyes.  
 _  
Illya... where the hell are you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be barging in about now for some sort of a heroic rescue?_

* * * * *

  
  
  
Jirke Ingersoll looked up from the small pile of manilla folders he and Illya Kuryakin were scrutinizing.  
  
“Ah... good evening, Dr. Zeinreich,” he said softly, a small smile spanning his lips.  
  
Illya stopped reading, freezing mid-sentence. He peered over his dark-rimmed glasses to see Gretchen Zeinreich approaching through the conference room door.  
  
“I assume you two know each other...” Ingersoll started, preparing for introductions if necessary.  
  
Gretchen cooly walked over to Illya and extended her hand. “Yes. We know each other. We’ve worked together on several occasions,” she explained to the lanky agent.  
  
The Russian stood and shook her hand in a formal manner, but beneath the impassive expression on Kuryakin’s face, she did detect a slight smile. “How are you doing, Dr. Kuryakin?”  
  
Illya sat back down. “At the moment, quite stressed, to be honest. My partner was abducted at Orly literally under my nose, and he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.”  
  
“Napoleon? Were there no tracers on him?” Gretchen asked.  
  
“By the time we discovered him missing, they had been removed or disabled. Our Intelligence has narrowed his possible whereabouts to over a dozen leads.”  
  
“Only a dozen, eh?” she mused. “Anything I can do to help?”  
  
“Thanks... no,” he mumbled. Then he sat up straight and looked Gretchen straight in the eye. “Tell me what you know about Peter Hecht.”  
  
“Ah - Peter Hecht and that dastardly formula he created. He was almost credited for taking your life. Twice.”  
  
“Almost doesn’t count.”  
  
“Let’s see... he’s German born and bred... joined Thrush’s ranks about five years back... a close associate of Franz Kaufmann...”  
  
“All that we know, Dr. Zeinreich,” Ingersoll interrupted. “Do you have information which may not have showed up in the Intelligence reports?”  
  
“I doubt it. Intelligence is really thorough.”  
  
“Did you ever meet him personally when you worked at the Pützen Compound?” Illya asked.  
  
“No. I never even heard about him until Franz Kaufmann started using his serum on you. But I do know they both met when they worked out of Thrush’s Munich Headquarters.”  
  
Kuryakin’s eyebrows raised. “That’s NOT in the Intelligence report.” He took off his glasses, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.  
  
“Headache?” Gretchen asked.  
  
Illya nodded.  
  
“Have you both been at this all day?”  
  
“Yes,” Ingersoll responded.  
  
“It’s half past eight. It might do you both some good to take a break and maybe get a bite to eat. You seem to be running on empty.”  
  
“No time,” Kuryakin muttered.  
  
“Well, then how about I bring you something?”  
  
Illya was lost in his files again. He looked up to see her still standing by him a moment later. The recollection of why she was there flashed across his mind. “Whatever...”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
  
The CEA’s body temperature had ranged from hot to cold. At times he shivered uncontrollably with cold, only to have the chills replaced by flashes of heat radiating from within moments later.  
  
His limbs had never been removed from their manacles. Finding a comfortable  
position was difficult, but almost impossible once the chills set in. He wanted so desperately to curl up into a ball.  
  
Time had lost meaning. Solo became unable to even guestimate how much time was passing. It seemed endless. The blaring overhead lights, the annoying sounds, his internal thermostat fluctuating all made him feel completely miserable.  
  
From the onset of Peter Hecht’s injection, a pounding headache persisted. Soon, pain began radiating internally, worsening as the drug wormed its way into every muscle, every vein, artery and capillary within his body.  
  
As hard as he tried to maintain a semblance of calm, he could feel his anxiety rising, causing the physical reaction naturally related to stress to increase. His own heartbeat hurt in his chest. Breaths could not come quickly enough, almost smothering him. He sensed his heart rate and blood pressure had risen.  
  
All the while, the headache increased in its severity, along with his sensitivity to every stimulus around him.  
  


  
Napoleon Solo was completely drenched in sweat by the time Gabriella Massamino and Peter Hecht returned. The padding on the table... plastic ...stuck to every inch of skin it touched, making him feel even clamier. He was laying on his left side, his back to the door.  
  
“How are we doing, my dear Napoleon?” she bellowed... or seemed to bellow.  
  
Solo winced at the sound of her voice. He would have sworn she was yelling at the top of her lungs. Even his arms covering his ears did not block out the sound.  
  
“Couldn’t be better,” he responded dryly, trying hs hardest not to sound as distressed as he really felt.  
  
“I’m so glad. I need you in good condition,” she cooed.  
  
“For...?”  
  
“Hmmm... you’ll soon see.”  
  
Hecht rolled Napoleon on his back. Solo felt a slight ‘give’ in the tension of the manacle holding his left wrist, and immediately balled his hand into a fist and tried striking the Thrush scientist. But to his dismay, the manacle had not been fully released, but rather, the end attaching it to the table merely slid within a track, forcing the arm to only rotate slightly. Hecht then repeated the same procedure with the right arm, forcing Solo’s arms to be almost perpendicular with is body. The CEA felt like a monarch butterfly specimen on display and assumed he now looked like the Da Vinci’s _Vitruvian Man_.  
  
Gabriella moved in as Peter moved away. Without saying a word she looked Napoleon up and down, smirked a little, then ran her fingers under the waistband of his trousers. Her fingers then went further beneath the fabric until they touched the sweat-dampened pubic hairs at the top of his groin. Her smirk widened into a smile as her hands seductively edged closer to his penis, feeling the movement as an erection began.  
  
“I see you still have feelings for me,” she oozed, running her fingers along Solo’s erect penis.  
  
“Don’t take it too personally, Gabriella,” Napoleon gasped, trying to control the overwhelming, uncontrollable sensations coursing through his groin. “With Hecht’s serum, I believe an orangutan could elicit the same response from me.”  
  
She chuckled, fingering the erection now proudly protruding through the fabric of the trousers. “I seriously doubt that. I am, after all, a bit more attractive and alluring than an orangutan.”  
  
“At the moment,” Solo gasped again, “I wouldn’t lay money on that.”  
  
Gabriella’s fingers grasped the elastic waistband of the trousers and began tugging them down Solo’s body. He very willingly lifted his hips to assist her, glad to be rid of the fabric’s confinement. Only after the fabric lay around his ankles did she continue arousing him.  
  
The feelings created by Massamino’s touch were beyond anything he had ever experienced... delicious, exhilarating, wildly animalistically intoxicating. But it was happening quickly... too fast... out of control. Despite his best efforts to maintain a degree of impassiveness, the drug-induced sensations took him over and he responded with the reactions of a man surrendering to a lover’s touch.  
  
The orgasm left him breathless, his heart pounding wildly within his chest. His eyes closed tightly as he gasped for air to fill his lungs, making him feel as though he were old and out of shape.  
  
Something was gripping his right biceps, tightening as the seconds passed. Solo opened his eyes to see a Peter Hecht inflating a blood pressure cuff around his right arm. He smiled when he saw Napoleon’s eyes open.  
  
“Not bad, Mr. Solo,” Peter announced, holding up a stopwatch. “That took one exactly minute and fifty-five seconds.”  
  
“OK - I’ll bite,” Napoleon asked, still out of breath. “What took one minute and fifty-five seconds?”  
  
“From the moment Gabriella laid her hands on you until you ejaculated.”  
  
Solo chuckled, finally feeling some semblance of composure. “Are we training for a new Olympic event?”  
  
“Not really, my dear,” Gabriella smiled. “We’re just seeing how this drug effects you with pleasure, as well as pain.”  
  
“Hmmm,” Napoleon sighed. “A little unscientific, wouldn’t you say? Don’t you need a baseline study before beginning the experiments?”  
  
“But I have that, Napoleon,” she assured him.  
  
“Oh? Did I miss something?”  
  
“Not at all. Remember the last time we were together in Lisbon?”  
  
“Lisbon... Lisbon...” Solo closed his eyes, as if in thought. “Sorry, Gabriella, but my liaisons often blur together.” His eyes opened, squinting against the brightness of the room. “You know how it is, eh? One pretty face blends into the next.”  
  
“Well, this pretty face got her baseline figures in Lisbon, although your memory seems to fail you at the moment.”  
  
Peter Hecht finished his blood pressure reading, and began deflating the cuff.  
  
“Well, I must say, Mr. Solo. You are fit as a fiddle. Despite the drugs I’ve given you, and the level of physical exertion you just went through, your blood pressure is pretty low.”  
  
“Low?”  
  
“Yes. I got a reading of 175/110.”  
  
“Doesn’t that seem a bit on the high side?” Gabriella asked him.  
  
“Like I said, considering the drugs and having just had sex,” he looked at Napoleon, “...sort of... that’s a pretty good reading.”  
  
Napoleon hoped a mask of fear was not creeping over his face. 175/110 - that was pretty damn high - and they were just getting started.  
  
“Shall we begin ‘round two’?” Gabriella asked, smirking.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
It was after one in the morning when Gretchen Zeinreich entered the conference room for a second time. Illya was at the conference table alone, still scouring through manilla folders.  
  
“Ingersoll abandoned you?” she asked quietly.  
  
“Not exactly. I sent him home half an hour ago.” Kuryakin sighed. “We were getting nowhere fast.”  
  
“What have you come up with?”  
  
“Peter Hecht seems to be our best lead. I assume he’s somewhere between Central Germany and the Swiss border, but we have no data substantiating any particular area to search. I’ve gotten two updates from Intelligence, but nothing specifically on Hecht or Massamino.”  
  
“Can I help you at all?”  
  
Illya looked her in the eyes and smiled a little. “Not really. I just want to be available if anything breaks.”  
  
“So I guess the offer of my apartment is out of the question.”  
  
“At the moment, yes.”  
  
“How about my office, then,” she offered. “I have a comfortable couch behind my desk, and you can have it all to yourself until about eight in the morning.”  
  
“No, I don’t really think...”  
  
Gretchen tossed her keys on the conference table. “Just in case.” She turned around and walked out the door, waving as she exited, wishing he would have elected to go home with her.  
  
Deep inside, so did he.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Peter Hecht and Gabriella Massamino left Napoleon writhing on the padded table when they had finished with him. He pained horribly from the inside out. Every muscle seemed battered, worn, and exhausted, his belly burned from the hunger of not having eaten in ...how long?.. he had lost track. His groin ached and his sense of self had just taken a battering from the malicious, sadistic treatment the two Thrushies had put him through.  
  
Napoleon had lost count of the number of times Massamino’s hands brought him to orgasm, in essence raping him. Throughout her ‘experiments’, different variables were included, including more of Hecht’s serum. Each time, the statistics of his performance were announced and recorded, along with the physical measurements of his penis, the length of time for ejaculation, and how long it took for him to become flaccid. Then they would start again.  
  
The final time, Gabriella stopped short of his ejaculation, leaving him to feel as though he would burst if he didn’t release his seed. Instead of following through with her arousal, she snickered as she brought his trousers back up over his sticky legs and hips and walked away.  
  
Hecht stayed a few moments longer, observing Napoleon’s pain and distress and documented the findings in his notes.  
  
Sensing Hecht was still in the room, Solo tried his hardest not to oblige him with the moans he so desperately needed to release. Once Peter left the room, though, he let it out, shamelessly howling with the pain coursing through him.  
  
Napoleon was unaware of the intercom switch that Peter Hecht activated before leaving. The sounds of the agent’s cries echoed throughout the hallways.  
  


  
  
Hecht was careful to monitor Napoleon’s vital signs - his heart rate, breath rate, and blood pressure - throughout his experiments. He noted and documented each finding, categorizing them with the type of action it followed.  
  
The CEA felt constantly thirsty. Peter Hecht gave him water periodically for hydration. His profuse sweating dehydrated him and his parched throat was irritated by the uncontrollable outbursts and cries he found himself making.  
  
Gabriella Massamino continued her visits, teasing, toying, arousing and humiliating Napoleon. After what Solo assumed was about her fifth visit, she could see that her quarry was not completely thrilled to see her.  
  
“But I thought you liked sex?” she said softly, seductively, running her hands over his chest.  
  
Napoleon gasped under her touch. “This isn’t exactly what I’d call sex.”  
  
“Is it not pleasurable?” Her fingers began working their way down his abdomen.  
  
“I've had better.” His voice became more uneven.  
  
His trousers were pulled down his body and she began massaging his inner thighs.  
  
“Better than me?”  
  
“Stop deluding yourself, Gabriella,” he managed to say before wincing and trying to pull away from her touch. “At the moment, you’re pretty far down on my list.”  
  
Outraged by his insolence, she backhanded him across the face. The agent grimaced and tried holding back the involuntary tears forming in his eyes.  
  
Peter Hecht stopped her from striking him a second time.  
  
“You may injure your hand,” Hecht chuckled softly, massaging her hand affectionately. “Wait a moment...” He walked away for a moment and returned with a slender wooden rod. “Use this...” Peter then whispered in her ear, “...but go gently. After all, he **_is_** hypersensitive to any stimulation.”  
  
Massamino smirked and then struck Napoleon’s naked torso and legs with the rod several times. The sound of the weapon slicing through the air seared through his head a split second before the wood made contact with his flesh.  
  
Solo’s own screams were deafening. The pain had an intensity he had never felt before. Each blow felt worse than the one before. He tried turning the front of his body away from her for protection, but Peter Hecht held him steady. Napoleon bucked and pulled helplessly, hoping the torture would soon end.  
  
“So, Mr. Solo. Perhaps now you will tell me about changing places with Erich Von Koeinghoffer,” Hecht interjected, momentarily stopping Gabriella.  
  
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Napoleon was in pain, exhausted. He had difficulty focusing on the demand Peter Hecht was making.  
  
“You’re wrong,” Solo finally responded, gasping for breath. “No way I could have....”  
  
Peter smirked. “And I still don’t believe you.” He turned to Gabriella. “My dear....”  
  
After a few strikes, Peter Hecht stopped her, noting that Solo was on the brink of unconsciousness. He was not prepared to lose the agent so quickly, so he halted the beating and turned Napoleon on his side to alleviate the pain.  
  
“We’ll continue this later.”  
  
The trousers were pulled up over the sore legs before Solo was left alone in the room once more, screaming and shaking uncontrollably.  
  


  
  
Occasionally, between the sexual assaults, the drugging, and the intermittent beatings was Napoleon Solo allowed the luxury of getting up. During each of those times he was heavily guarded while being given the opportunity to relieve himself and stretch his muscles.  
  
But little by little, the beatings increased. Under any other circumstances, they would have been minimal, barely noticeable. But combined with the effects of the Hecht Formula, the most insignificant slap hammered through Solo’s hide with the force of a whip.  
  
Hecht increased the intensity of both the abuse and his drug at precise intervals, leaving Napoleon in almost a constant state of distress.  
  
The pain never ceased, merely decreased in severity for short periods as the drug began to wear off, only to be replenished in a slightly larger quantity. Knife-like pain sliced through him with each movement, the pain amplified by Hecht’s serum. Solo abandoned any thought of stoicism. He yelled, screamed, cried out with the agony.  
  
The time in the laboratory became endless. Solo wasn’t sure which was worse - the periods in which Massamino and Hecht worked him over, or the times when they left him alone.  
  
Sleep was never an option. He was rarely without some sort of torturous annoyances. When the Thrush duo finally did leave, the lights continued to blare and pre-recorded bothersome sounds droned on a reel-to-reel tape player. Horribly irritating sounds... a baby constantly crying, the incessant ring of a telephone yet to be answered, the directional signal in a car which neglected to be turned off, played at varying decibels. Although he did occasionally enjoy the opera, several hours of screeching sopranos singing in full vibrato grated on his nervous system beyond description.  
  
Occasionally, the sounds did stop. The silence became eerier than the noise, and in the rare instance Napoleon would find himself dozing, another set of sounds would begin, jarring him once again into painful wakefulness. Sleep would not be a respite.  
  


  
  
**Two days later**  
  
Gabriella Massamino left Thrush’s Munich Headquarters and quickly walked to one of their many underground hidden parking garages. She slipped behind the wheel of her newly imported DeLorean. Immediately she turned on the ignition and engaged the gears into reverse, careening out of the parking space. Before the car even came to a halt the gears were changed into first and the car sped around the curves of the garage, squealing as she took the corners faster than necessary.  
  
It was after six pm when she she exited the parking facility, leading her on to busy Frankenstrasse at the tail-end of rush hour traffic.  
  
Despite her best efforts, she got caught at a red light at the intersection of Frankenstrasse and Burgen. Throngs of pedestrians crossed with their green light, several weaving away from the crosswalks to save a few steps once they’d crossed the street.  
  
Two mini-skirt clad young ladies were chatting and walking, oblivious to the brand new DeLorean waiting for the light to change. One of them, a brunette wearing a short, rabbit fur jacket, bumped into the front of her car.  
  
“Ouch!” she yelled, grabbing the fishnet-stockinged knee which slammed into the bumper.  
  
Massamino pounded her fist on the horn, more concerned with damage to her car than the young woman having an injury to her knee. She rolled down the window.  
  
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Gabriella shrieked. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?”  
  
The brunette glared at her and walked right up to the open window, placing both hands on either side of the door. “And just how could I have missed this fine example of ostentatious American automotive ingenuity?”  
  
The red light changed to green.  
  
Gabriella snarled and rolled up the window, speeding away.  
  
The brunette, Kiersten Brubeck, tugged at her mini-skirt and smirked. She winked at her friend and UNCLE co-worker, Marlene Maxler before the two of them headed back to headquarters. The tracer had been planted.  
  


  
Kuryakin bolted out of the stainless steel doors after leaving UNCLE’s Intelligence Department. He trotted through the hallway and up three flights of stairs to Frederich Leydendecker’s office.  
  
Ilsa Gerst, Leydendecker’s personal secretary, did not even wait for Illya to explain himself before notifying her boss that the Russian needed to see him.  
  
“We’ve finally had a sighting,” he said as he rushed into Leydendecker’s office. His heart raced. “Our agents spotted Gabriella Massamino in Munich, heading for Thrush Headquarters.”  
  
“Very good. Is she still there?”  
  
“No,” Kuryakin explained. “She left, and one of our agents planted a tracer on her car. Hopefully she will lead us us to wherever they’re holding Napoleon.”  
  
“What makes you think he’s not at Thrush Munich?” Leydendecker asked.  
  
“There have been no sightings of Peter Hecht in the area, and if my theories are correct, he is the one who orchestrated Napoleon’s abduction... with Massamino’s assistance.”  
  
“I’ll contact the Munich office to follow through.” Leydendecker reached for one of the buttons on his console.  
  
Illya paused for a brief second. “If you don’t mind, Herr Leydendecker, I would like to lead this.”  
  
“Logistically, it makes more sense to let Munich handle it.”  
  
“IF she’s staying in Munich. We’re tracking her now, and she seems to be heading North, away from the city. If you make a helicopter available to me, I can head a team to...”  
  
Frederich Leydendecker smiled just a little. He could sense the Russian grinding at the bit, wanting to rescue his partner and put this particular Thrush satrap out of commission. He held up his hand to stop Illya from going further. “Say no more, Mr. Kuryakin. The assignment is yours. You can have Ingersoll and as many other agents as you deem necessary. You have my full backing on this one, young man. Just keep me informed.”  
  
In less than half an hour, Illya Kuryakin and a team of seven were aboard an UNCLE helicopter, headed South.


	3. Chapter 3

**Twenty Eight Miles North of Munich**

The jeeps were parked half a mile away from the supposed entrance. Before exiting the vehicles, the agents checked and double-checked the equipment, making sure they had adequate ammunition for whatever they may encounter.  
  
“I’d like you to reconsider staying behind,” Illya snapped to Gretchen. “I can handle him.”  
  
“So can I!”  
  
Kuryakin looked up at her, stopping the inventorying momentarily. “Are you so sure?”  
  
“I ‘handled’ you, didn’t I?” Gretchen Zeinreich stubbornly folded her arms across her chest.  
  
“From what I heard, you gassed me senseless then put me in restraints before ‘handling’ me.”  
  
“It worked.” She paused. “Besides, you don’t know what his condition will be. I’ll be useless out here.”  
  
“And alive,” Kuryakin countered, double-checking the explosives he planned to carry in. “You’re not trained for a rescue and demolition assignment.”  
  
“But you are!” She was adamant about going in with the UNCLE team. “Besides, I have the antidote and the knowledge to determine how much of it to administer. I’ve been working on Peter Hecht’s serum since it had been used on you... and almost killed you, I might add.”  
  
“I’m just not comfortable putting you in the line of fire.”  
  
“I can take care of myself!”  
  
“We’re ready, Herr Kuryakin,” Jirke Ingersoll reported, breaking the tension between Illya and Gretchen.  
  
“As are we,” the Russian muttered back to him.  
  
Under the blanket of darkness in the moonless night, Kuryakin, Zeinreich and his team of six silently headed through the dense brush. Their target was the underground installation half a mile due east.  
  
The helicopter which brought them south was scheduled to rendezvous with the team at a pre-arranged time to transport the team to one of UNCLE’s Headquarters. Its final destination depended on Napoleon Solo’s condition. If he was critical, the pilot was instructed to fly to Munich. If he could handle a slightly longer trip, then they would return to the Berlin Headquarters.  
  
Approximately a quarter mile from the Thrush property, the Russian stopped and halted his party.  
  
“According to my sensors, they have a silent alarm system around their perimeter,” he whispered.  
  
He caucused with each of his agents and then they separated to disable each alarms.  
  
Gretchen started walking towards one of the sites.  
  
“Not you!” Kuryakin hissed. “You’re staying with me. And don’t touch anything!” He was beginning to regret not pulling rank and ordering her to stay with the helicopter.  
  
Not that she would have obeyed.  
  
One by one, Illya’s sensors indicated that the alarms had been disabled. The team regrouped and headed once more towards the entrance of the installation.  
  
In the center of a small clearing stood a nondescript cabin, complete with smoking chimney and soft, golden lights glowing from its windows. The UNCLE agents looked at each other. Did they advance on the wrong property?  
  
Illya assured them that this was the correct site. It would seem rather unlikely that the occupants of an ordinary cabin would deem it necessary to surround themselves with the type of security system they just disabled.  
  
The UNCLE agents looked at each other. They were all dressed in black and armed to the teeth. All except Gretchen.  
  
She grinned and handed Illya her knapsack before walking up the front steps and knocking on their door.  
  
An elderly man opened the door, surprised to see her standing on the landing.  
  
“Excuse me,” she began softly. “I’m sorry to bother you so late at night, but my car broke down on the road and I need to call a friend. May I please use your phone?”  
  
There was an awkward silence. The old man was obviously confused by her presence. The UNCLE team assumed he was wondering how she came up his path undetected.  
  
“Oh,” Gretchen continued. “I understand if you’re hesitant to let me in.” She giggled a little. “I would be, too. You never know who’s lurking in the dark these days.” The blonde doctor opened her purse and took out a notepad, writing a number down on the top sheet of paper. “Here’s my phone number. Kurt should be home.” She giggled again. “He’s my boyfriend. If you could please call him, I’d really appreciate it. I can wait out here, if you prefer.”  
  
Still confused, the old man took the paper and turned to re-enter his house.  
  
Before he could close the door, Illya Kuryakin rushed through and wrestled him to the floor. The Russian had instructed his team to wait outside. The last thing he needed was for the sound of six men trampling through the house wafting through the floorboards.  
  
The old gent was surprisingly strong for a man of his age. As they struggled, he kept inching towards coffee table. From his perspective on the floor, Illya noticed a button attached to the underside of the table. Obviously an alarm.  
  
Suddenly, the old man’s body stilled. He stopped struggling, fighting. His eyes opened wide and he looked around. The pretty blonde who had been at his door was not standing over him, syringe in hand.  
  
“That should put him out of commission for awhile,” Gretchen said triumphantly. She turned her attention to Illya. “Shall we continue?”  
  
Kuryakin and his team found the entrance to the Thrush installation with relative ease. It was almost a little too obvious. Ingersoll noticed a rather heavy handle protruding from the log holder in the fireplace. Using an andiron, he pushed the handle away from himself, pleased to find that the unit and floor beneath it swung back into a recess in the chimney. Now visible below the fireplace’s floorboards was a ladder to an underground room.  
  
Each man removed his black overalls and entered the installation wearing reasonable facsimiles of Thrush fatigues, complete with security badges. Ingersoll smiled inwardly. His last Thrush raid yielded these little beauties which he knew would be beneficial at some point in time.  
  


  
  
The UNCLE team split up. Except for Gretchen Zeinreich. Illya insisted she stay with him. He hated working with novices; they got in the way. It could prove fatal. But he would only trust someone of his own caliber with this particular novice.  
  
Each agent knew his assignment and allowed themselves adequate time to do a sweep of the installation. Their mission was four-fold. Finding and rescuing Napoleon Solo was a priority. If Frederick Leydendecker’s sources were correct, Solo would be at this location. UNCLE wanted as many of the upper-echelon Thrush operatives returned alive. UNCLE also wanted their files and any pertinent data the agents could find. Finally, the installation was to be destroyed.  
  
Activity within the satrap was quiet. Only a skeleton crew apparently manning the facility. The agents had virtually no difficulty moving around undetected with the help of their fatigues and Ingersoll’s badges.  
  
Illya heard the sounds first. A human moan, someone crying out, a raspy yell. Although he couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, he could tell it was definitely his partner’s voice. He stopped in his tracks, silently motioning for Gretchen to stop as well. Within seconds they determined that the sounds were coming from the left.  
  
They listened intently as they passed each door.  
  
Illya was confused. The doors were solid metal and quite soundproofed. Yet the sounds of Napoleon’s voice filtered through the hallways.  
  
The sounds were still further ahead. After several more doors, they found the one they were looking for. This particular portal housed a speaker above the door frame, an activated speaker amplifying the sounds from within the room.  
  
Other voices met their ears. A male and female voice indicated that Solo was not alone.  
  
Kuryakin drew his gun and barged through the door. A rather startled Peter Hecht and Gabriella Massamino stopped their actions and looked up.  
  
“Freeze!” Illya ordered in a low growl.  
  
The two Thrush agents did as he requested. Gabriella Massamino had one hand on Napoleon’s chest and the other under the waistband of his trousers. Peter Hecht was about to inject his all-too-familiar green serum into a vein in Solo’s left arm.  
  
From where he was standing, Illya could see his partner in restraints on the platform, with a tourniquet around his left biceps in preparation for the injection. Napoleon gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tightly, obviously in distress. The Russian could see the visible contractions of his partner’s abdomen along with the uneven gasps for breath. Red marks striped his torso. Solo’s head lolled from side to side, and raspy moans and grunts came from deep within his throat. Sweat covered his body.  
  
“Raise your hands, both of you!” Kuryakin continued.  
  
Hecht and Massamino hesitated for a second, still startled by Illya’s presence.  
  
Illya raised the gun and aimed it directly at Peter Hecht’s head. “Now!”  
  
Both Massamino and Hecht finally obeyed, raising their hands.  
  
“Step away from him!” Illya Kuryakin’s gun never wavered. “Slowly.”  
  
They did, finally standing in the middle of the room.  
  
“Is all this bravado really necessary?” Gabriella Massamino asked, trying to look as sympathetic as possible. “We were in the midst of a perfectly good experiment when you so rudely interrupted us.”  
  
Gabriella began moving to her left, Hecht to his right.  
  
“Stay right where you are!” Illya ordered again, brandishing his weapon.  
  
Peter Hecht stopped and smiled. “You don’t need to be so curt, Mr. Kuryakin. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with you... in a distant sort of way.”  
  
Napoleon continued struggling against the restraints, oblivious to the fact that his partner stood several feet away and was in the midst of rescuing him. The tourniquet bit into his flesh. Instinctively Solo used his teeth to pull one of its ends, successfully loosening it. Then he cried out and began shaking, pulling harder trying to free himself of the bonds.  
  
Gretchen watched, observed. She wasn’t sure whether his actions indicated his level of pain, or the sensitivity to the bright lights and commotion or all of the above. The UNCLE CEA was obviously in distress and completely disoriented.  
  
“Put the syringe down on the floor.” The Russian’s voice was ominous.  
  
The Thrush scientist ignored Kuryakin and slowly began to advance towards him again. “I feel a special kinship towards you. You and I have a bit of history together, you know. After all, you were my first test subject...”  
  
Without another warning, Illya fired off one warning round. Professionalism stopped him from killing Peter Hecht on the spot. The Russian remembered all too well his encounter with this madman’s formula.  
  
Solo reacted to the gunshot with a yelp, as though he had been struck by the bullet himself. Little by little, he struggled to roll over on to his right side, his head turned from the action in the room.  
  
“I’ll repeat myself one last time. Put the syringe down on the floor, or the next one goes right between your eyes, Hecht.”  
  
Peter Hecht slowly bent at the knees and placed the syringe on the floor by his feet before straightening up.  
  
“Move away from it slowly,” Kuryakin ordered.  
  
Gretchen moved in to retrieve the syringe, glad to finally have a pure sample of the drug to work with. She swooped the needle off the floor and immediately capped it before rushing to Napoleon Solo’s side. She called for the UNCLE team as back-up.  
  
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Hecht asked her.  
  
“No,” she responded dryly, avoiding eye contact while she gave Solo a cursory check-over.  
  
“Come on, now... I know I’ve seen you before.”  
  
Illya’s back-up arrived and swarmed in the room. Gabriella Massamino and Peter Hecht were handcuffed and lead to the door.  
  
“I know!” Peter Hecht exclaimed before exiting with two of the UNCLE crew. “You were at the Pützen compound...ummm, uh... Joseph Chalkler’s secretary, wasn’t it? Yes! That’s it, right? Gretchen ... something or other...”  
  
“No, that can’t be,” Gabriella Massamino snapped as she was escorted out the door. “She ran off with some Italian guard. They travel alot.” Her voice began fading as they were lead down the hallway. “I think she still sends Chalkler and Erich Von Koeinghoffer post cards from different parts of the world.”  
  
Gretchen was already tending to Napoleon when Illya returned to the padded table. Solo struggled and pulled within the restraints, his eyes tightly shut against the bright lights and the intrusion of his immediate surroundings. He shook - every fiber of his body seemingly on edge and on fire.  
  
“What’s your name?” Gretchen asked in a soft voice.  
  
No response.  
  
“Do you know who I am?”  
  
Still no response.  
  
As gently as possible, the blonde doctor tried assessing his condition. She allowed him to remain lying in his right side while probing his belly. His reaction indicated that it was tender to the touch. Napoleon’s pulse raced.  
  
Red needle marks created a path along a swollen vein in his left arm. Gretchen counted eleven. Her immediate estimations were that he had received four doses of Hecht’s drug per day, each approximately six hours apart. She and Illya had obviously walked in on dose number twelve.  
  
He trembled. His skin was pale; his face was gaunt, with dark circles around both red-rimmed eyes. Gretchen could feel the nervous energy almost radiating from his body.  
  
“I’ll just assume you haven’t eaten or slept in the past three days,” she remarked in a hushed tone. “But it does look like you’ve had fluids. You’re not dehydrated.”  
  
Solo recoiled the best he could from Gretchen Zeinreich’s touch. He tried turning his back to her, protecting the front of his body.  
  
“It’s all right,” she said. Gretchen moved close to Solo’s face, speaking softly and gently as possible. “Napoleon, I’m here to help you.”  
  
Napoleon mentally categorized the sound he heard only as ‘female’ and couldn’t discern the difference between Gabriella Massamino’s and Gretchen Zeinreich’s voices. Not that it mattered; he did not want to hear or be touched by either. He gritted his teeth and thrashed about, eyes still tightly shut, hoping to avert any physical contact.  
  
Solo’s belly burned. Illya and Gretchen watched as the UNCLE CEA tried bringing his knees to his chest, then cry out in anguish when he couldn’t. His chest heaved and abdomen contracted.  
  
Gretchen started unfastening the restraints around Napoleon’s ankles when Illya stopped her.  
  
“If you plan on injecting the antidote, you’d better leave them in place,” he warned. “I doubt releasing him will be beneficial for treating him at the moment.”  
  
The blonde doctor nodded.  
  
“Napoleon, open your mouth,” Gretchen instructed quietly. She wanted to get a saliva sample to get a preliminary determination of how much of Peter Hecht’s formula was in his system.  
  
Solo pulled back from her and refused to open his mouth. Illya held Napoleon’s head still while Gretchen gently placed her hand across his mouth, pressing his cheeks with her thumb and fingers. She felt the agent’s jaw release slightly under her pressure. Quickly, she slipped the end of a plastic test strip between his lips and withdrew it. Seconds later, the tab at the end turned a medium shade of reddish purple.  
  
She nodded silently. Her guestimations indicated that the level of Hecht’s formula was midline, not at its peak, but still well entrenched in his bloodstream.  
  
Gretchen reached into her medical bag and brought out the antidote and a syringe. It only took seconds for her to calculate how much to administer before extracting the serum from the vial. She motioned for Illya to hold his partner still.  
  
“Vein or muscle?” Illya quietly asked Gretchen.  
  
“Muscle.”  
  
Kuryakin clamped down on Napoleon’s left arm and used his own body weight to secure him. Solo thrashed about, fighting him with every drop of strength left in his body.  
  
“Gretchen’s going to inject the antidote. This is going to hurt, my friend,” Illya lamented softly in his partner’s ear.  
  
The CEA seemed to understand Illya’s words and steeled himself for the pain by taking a deep breath and baring his teeth, knowing all too well that it would hurt less if he didn’t move.  
  
After the injection, Solo bucked and screamed with a voice raspy from three days’  
abuse. Illya still held him tightly and talked quietly to his partner, hoping to help settle him down as the antidote took effect. Napoleon seemed inconsolable.  
  
The Russian understood.  
  


 _The residual memories of having been the subject of this particular drug came to mind while he tended to his partner. The effects during the drug’s peak eluded him; he had either been unconscious or so far beyond reality that he had no recollection of his pain. From what Gretchen and the doctors had told about the effects of Peter Hecht’s venom, it was far better off that he had no memory of it.  
  
What Illya did remember was the drug taking effect and wearing off, both lengthy and painful. As the drug took hold, the pain was unrelenting, washing over him in continual waves which worsened by the minute. He remembered being hyper-aware of every sound, everything touching his body, every nick, cut, scratch and welt. Lights bore holes through his skull, his eyelids offering no protection from the offensive illumination.  
  
Then there was the lapse of memory. The doses had been so dangerously high, his body literally shut down. He did not remember the screaming, the shaking, the inability to talk coherently once the drug reached its peak, and he found out later that Gretchen had to render him unconscious with surgical knock-out gas just to move him.  
  
His recollection of the drug returned as it began wearing off. The same incessant pain plagued him, only its effects lessened rather than increased. Gretchen had stayed with him both times the drug was tried on him, quietly, gently, comforting him until he was out of danger.  
  
Finally came the feeling of complete emptiness, like a part of his soul had evaporated as the drug left his system_.  
  


Napoleon Solo had obviously been given smaller quantities of the drug over a longer duration than he. And from what Gretchen had told him about his own experiences, Napoleon was almost as disoriented and despondent.  
  
“We’re going to release the restraints,” Kuryakin finally said to his partner. “You’re going to start feeling better soon.” He failed to add that in approximately ten minutes, a second dose of the antidote was to be injected.  
  
Once his wrists and ankles were freed, Napoleon brought his knees up to his chest, curling into a tight ball to alleviate the abdominal pains. He rocked and moaned softly, relieved to finally be in this position. The nervous shaking persisted.  
  
“Napoleon? Do you know who I am?” Gretchen asked.  
  
This time Solo responded by opening his eyes slightly, only to shut them immediately and turn his head away. He wrapped his arms around his legs and held on tightly. That voice... a female voice, was distressing.  
  
“I’m going to stay with you, Napoleon,” she added softly. “Your pain is going to start fading soon.”  
  
Gretchen continued talking in a low, mesmerizing voice. Illya smiled inwardly. He remembered that voice - that soft, hypnotic voice - helping ease him back from the ravages of the drug.  
  
While she tended to Napoleon, Illya began scouring the room for files, data, anything beneficial he could get his hands on.  
  
He quickly found Peter Hecht’s notes on the countertop by the sink. His findings were neat, orderly, precise. Hecht offered an accurate account of his tests on Napoleon, from the first injection up to the point just before he and Gretchen entered the room.  
  
Closer to the door were Gabriella Massamino’s notes. Her scrawly scribbles contrasted dramatically to Peter Hecht’s precision. Several phrases of a very personal nature caught his immediate attention.  
  
Kuryakin opened his knapsack and tucked the files into one of its compartments. He discreetly turned his back on Gretchen and slid Gabriella’s file into a false bottom.  
  
As he turned back around, Illya was pulling plastique explosives from his knapsack. He quickly moved about planting the explosives and their detonators around the room. Once his task was completed, he went through the room a second time to procure whatever else he thought would be of value.  
  
The cabinets were stocked with various types of medical paraphernalia. One had linens and towels on the upper shelf, and what appeared to be hospital scrubs on the bottom shelf. Another with glass beakers, petrie dishes, and slides. A third cabinet had bandages and antiseptics. The last cabinet had serums and chemical substances. This particular one caught Illya’s attention.  
  
The Russian checked his watch. Almost ten minutes had lapsed. He saw Gretchen reach into her medical bag for another syringe and vial of the antidote, and lay it behind Napoleon on the mattress, out of sight. Then she removed a second test strip.  
  
Solo appeared calmer. Illya hoped that the lull was the result to the antidote. He watched as Gretchen coaxed Napoleon to open his mouth for another saliva sample. She nodded and continued speaking softly after checking its results. Obviously a good sign.  
  
After lying still for a few more seconds, Napoleon made an attempt to sit up. Gretchen offered a hand which was immediately swatted away. Solo kept his head lowered, eyes averting hers as he squinted against the blaring lights. More color drained from his cheeks.  
  
His motions were clumsy, awkward. One shaking arm remained clamped around his midsection to minimize the pain still gnawing at him.  
  
“Let me help you,” she offered softly.  
  
Slowly, very slowly, Solo looked up at her. Illya watched from across the room, observing the feral, venomous glare radiating from the brown eyes. The Russian recognized the signs of an animal about to strike.  
  
“Napoleon! No!” Illya shouted just before Solo began his attack.  
  
Sheer instinct and adrenaline boosted Napoleon’s strength to bolt off the table, taking Gretchen with him and slamming her into the rear wall. The impact stunned her long enough for Solo to gain control.  
  
Napoleon spun her around and stood behind her with his right arm around her throat. Gretchen had the presence of mind to turn her head towards his elbow and tuck her chin downward to protect her windpipe. She next felt his left arm behind her neck, beginning to apply what he hoped would be enough strength to snap her spinal cord.  
  
Before Gretchen could fend him off, Illya had intervened by rushing Napoleon from behind. The Russian pried his hands and forearms under Solo’s armpits and pulled backwards, forcing Napoleon’s arms to raise, releasing her.  
  
Napoleon fought back immediately while his arms were still in the air. He tried to elbow his partner along the right side of the head, but Illya skillfully averted the attempt, and pulled the arm downwards and behind. In a split second, Solo was secured.  
  
Illya forcibly guided him back to the padded table and draped Solo’s upper body over the top, using his own body to hold down the CEA.  
  
“Are you allright?” Kuryakin called over his shoulder to Gretchen.  
  
“Yes.” She did not sound too convincing.  
  
“Good. I’ll hold him while you give him the second dose.”  
  
Napoleon bucked, trying to free himself. Illya hated seeing his partner in this condition, and hated adding to his distress even more.  
  
Gretchen re-read the test strip and filled another syringe with the proper quantity of the antidote.  
  
As she approached, the silence in the room was suddenly replaced by the blaring of an alarm. Illya knew it would only be moments before the Thrush calvary arrived.  
  
Sirens wailed. Lights flashed. Napoleon bared his teeth in reaction to the flashings and the noise piercing his brain, and finally screamed along with it. He thrashed about more intensely, almost breaking free from his partner.  
  
Despite the confusion, Gretchen prepared the syringe and injected its contents into Napoleon’s arm.  
  
The door slid open.  
  
“Get down!” Illya ordered Gretchen while dragging Napoleon’s bottom half up on the table. He unholstered his UNCLE Special and lay on top of Solo, shielding his partner’s body with his own. From that position he was able to pluck off the Thrushmen as they rushed into lab.  
  
Illya heard more footsteps running down the outer corridor, unsure whether they were  
from friend or foe.  
  
The Russian began to watch men in the back of the Thrush ranks fall, and not from his bullets. He now knew that those new footsteps were his UNCLE team coming to his assistance.  
  
The gun battle was blessedly short, with all the casualties on the Thrush side. An eerie silence filled the room for a few seconds after the shooting and sirens ended. Gretchen came out of her hiding place between two file cabinets.  
  
Illya felt a slight movement beneath him, relieved he hadn’t crushed the life out of his partner.  
  
“Illya?” he heard a weak voice ask.  
  
The Russian slid off the table and brought his face level with Napoleon’s. The brown eyes were still dilated and somewhat unfocused, but there was a spark of recognition.  
  
Illya smiled slightly. “Are you with me?” he asked, brushing the hair out of Napoleon’s eyes.  
  
Napoleon nodded weakly.  
  
“That’s great.” Illya looked up at the rest of his team which were now all assembled in the lab. “Are we all ready to head out?” he asked.  
  
After a series of affirmatives, Kuryakin curtly nodded and ordered them to start evacuating the premises. Gretchen gathered up her equipment and moved towards Illya and Napoleon to lend a hand.  
  
“I’ve got him. Take this....” Illya handed Gretchen his knapsack, but kept the remote detonator, “...and get in the helicopter.”  
  
She nodded and reluctantly followed the rest of the UNCLE team out of the installation.  
  
“All right, let’s get you out of here,” Illya said as he helped Napoleon upright.  
  
After a scant few seconds to steady himself, Solo started getting off the table. He was lightheaded, dizzy from hunger and the ravages of the drugs still in his bloodstream. His knees buckled slightly beneath him, but Illya was there to steady him.  
  
Napoleon grasped at Illya’s shirt, trying to regain a sense of equilibrium. The CEA’s hands shook.  
  
“I feel like hell,” Solo grunted between gritted teeth.  
  
Kuryakin placed a reassuring hand on the back of his partner’s neck. “I know.”  
  
Solo nodded slightly. Yes, Illya did know.  
  
As his cobwebs began clearing from Napoleon’s brain, the realization of what he had just been through began creeping in. He looked down at himself - dirty, sweaty - his pants stained with blood, urine, semen, and Lord knows what else, his thighs sticky with the same.  
  
Without having to utter a word, Illya understood his partner’s slight hesitation. Kuryakin hurried to the cabinet which held the hospital scrubs and found a pair which would fit Napoleon. He helped Solo out of his grungy pants and into the clean outfit before the two of them exited the lab.  
  


  
  
Illya and Napoleon were the last two UNCLE agents to board the helicopter. The rest of his team had already changed out of their Thrush garb and into the street clothing they had previously placed on board. The pilot was ready for immediate take-off.  
  
“Berlin?” the pilot called over his shoulder.  
  
“Yes,” Gretchen responded.  
  
Napoleon plodded barefooted to one of the two remaining seats. He fumbled with the seatbelts, struggling with less-than-nimble hands and fingers. His frustration was apparent.  
  
“Here! Put this on,” Illya instructed him before the belts were fastened.  
  
Napoleon looked up slightly dumbfounded as the heavy sweatshirt from Kuryakin’s knapsack was thrown onto his lap. “Your body temperature is going to drop shortly.”  
  
Solo nodded and slipped the sweatshirt on before continuing to fasten the seatbelts. Gretchen offered to help, but Napoleon pushed her hand away. Damn! He was going to do it himself if it killed him!  
  
A pair of socks landed in his lap next. Napoleon looked up to see his partner re-lacing the boots he had just removed.  
  
There was a brief moment of hesitation.  
  
“Don’t worry, Napoleon,” Illya chuckled. “They were clean when I put them on this morning.” He paused a second and furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, maybe it was yesterday morning. I can’t remember. Anyway, you’re going to freeze in bare feet.”  
  
The helicopter was already in the air by the time Napoleon was belted in. The pilot turned the chopper around to face the site they had just vacated and nodded to Kuryakin. They were a now a safe distance from the satrap; Illya was able to detonate the charges he and his team had planted. The ground lit up in the darkness, sending a small fireball skyward. The chopper shook slightly from the reverberations of the blast. They remained a moment longer to make sure the blast self-extinguished and would not rage out of control.  
  
As the pilot continued his flight to Berlin, Napoleon sat back and shut his eyes, fighting to control the tremors which threatened to take over his body.  
  
He was only partially successful.  
  
Arrogance and ego prevented him from visibly submitting to his discomfort. The last thing Solo wanted was for Illya’s team to see him weakened, compromised, less than composed in his current situation. No, he would wait for a more opportune moment for a meltdown.  
  
After a short silence, Gretchen offered Napoleon a bottle of water. He nodded, and to avoid the embarrassment of poor dexterity, she removed the cap before giving it to him.  
  
The CEA took a few slow sips, hoping it would remain in his stomach and not repel on the floor of the chopper. His belly churned its acidic contents with the water.  
  
Solo turned towards his partner. “How much longer ‘till we get to Berlin?”  
  
Illya sensed his discomfort. “About forty minutes,” the Russian responded while patting his partner’s knee. “I know that sounds like an eternity. Can you hold out?”  
  
“Yeah.”

  
  
“Gretchen has Dr. Lipshultz standing by at headquarters to take care of you as soon as we land,” Kuryakin assured him.  
  
“What I really need is a shower,” Napoleon said, looking up at Gretchen.  
  
She smiled. “We’ll take care of cleaning you up, Napoleon. Just relax.”  
  
“No,” Solo responded, shaking his head. “I’m covered in dirt and sweat. I feel positively disgusting.”  
  
“I know. In due time. You know the procedure. Not until we check you over.” Gretchen was adamant.  
  
“Surely you can make an exception this one time.” Solo was equally as adamant.  
  
Gretchen shook her head. “It’s out of the question. You’re in no condition.”  
  
Illya watched his partner’s jaw clench slightly, probably being the only person in the helicopter who recognized a sign of Napoleon’s temper beginning to flare.  
  
“I’ll take full responsibility for my actions.” Solo’s voice was slightly elevated, his frustration mounting. He did not want the embarrassment of having UNCLE’s Berlin medical team seeing him in this condition.  
  
“Please, Napoleon... don’t make this more difficult. I can’t let you...”  
  
Solo cut her off. “Well, then I’m refusing your treatment. The drug will work its way out of my system on its own.”  
  
“Stop being so stubborn! You know the routine. We need to assess and treat you. No exceptions.”  
  
“To hell with the routine!” Solo almost snarled. _Damn!_ he felt horrible. His belly still burned and it was becoming increasingly difficult not giving in to his tremors.  
  
All it took was the feeling of Illya’s shoulder brushing against his own to stop Napoleon before he completely embarrassed himself.  
  
“Tell you what, Gretchen,” Illya interrupted. He felt that it was time to advocate on his partner’s behalf. “Let him get cleaned up. I’ll personally watch over him, scrub his back if necessary... but let him take the shower. You have NO idea how awful it feels when that drug wears off.”  
  
She now turned to Illya and shook her head again. “You know I can’t allow that, Illya. He’s not stabile yet. For the past three days he’s been at Thrush’s mercy, and until we do a complete check-over, we won’t know the extent of the damage. I need to do bloodwork and a host of other tests on him immediately.”  
  
Napoleon opened his mouth to respond, but Illya discreetly motioned for him to stop.  
  
“Can you do take his blood now?” Illya asked.  
  
She thought for a second or two. “If necessary, yes.”  
  
Kuryakin smiled a little. “Well, why not draw a sample here. Do whatever you need to on board the helicopter. That will save you a little time when we get back to headquarters.”  
  
Gretchen sighed. “True, but that still doesn’t resolve the issue of letting him take a shower.”  
  
“He’ll be fine,” Illya assured her. “I’ll see to it.”  
  
“How can you ‘see to it’? He’s barely holding it together now...” she turned to Napoleon, “...like you thought I wouldn’t notice.”  
  
Illya observed Solo’s body stiffening slightly, the breaths increasing, his anger rising. Although Napoleon tried his hardest not to let the impending rage consume his judgment, he wanted to really strangle Gretchen Zeinreich at the moment.  
  
The CEA took a deep breath. “And you’re not making this any easier. For Chrissake, Gretchen, I can’t even stand the smell of my own body right now!” he hissed in a low tone. His hands balled into fists. “Cut me a break, OK?” He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.  
  
Illya again discreetly signaled Napoleon to calm down... a brief glance, a slight raising of his eyebrows. “Like I said, I will watch out for him.”  
  
Gretchen hesitated a moment, then sighed; _A good sign,_ Napoleon thought.  
  
“Let me think it over,” she finally responded.  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Berlin Headquarters, Medical Section**

“You let him _**what**_?” Dr. Maurice Lipshultz shrieked.  
  
Gretchen Zeinreich glided past him, ignoring the outburst. She deposited her medical bag and Illya’s knapsack on a counter by the door of their medical office.  
  
“I let him take a shower,” she replied.  
  
“Why on earth would you allow that? We have no idea what condition he’s in!”  
  
“Maurice, I’ve spent almost the past two hours with him. Solo had two doses of the antidote while in the Thrush lab, and another on board the helicopter. His condition has improved dramatically. He’s walking, talking, and drinking. And although he’s still hypersensitive, his pain is greatly diminished.”  
  
Maurice Lipshultz shook his head and walked over to help relieve her of Kuryakin’s knapsack and her own medical bag. He abruptly stopped when he saw the bruising around her neck.  
  
“What happened to you?” he asked quietly, probing the sore areas gently with his fingers.  
  
“Really, Maurice... I’m fine.”  
  
“Shhh.” Dr. Lipshultz felt around her neck and spinal cord. “Just let me take a quick look at you.”  
  
Gretchen allowed him to check her over. She had not ruled out the possibility of injury.  
  
“Got in Thrush’s way, did you?” he mused while rotating her head.  
  
She paused. “Um... not exactly.”  
  
“Oh? If not Thrush, then...?”  
  
“Napoleon.” She did not want to explain further.  
  
Lipshultz stopped. “Napoleon?”  
  
“Yes,” she sighed. “I believe he mistook me for Gabriella Massamino.”  
  
“Hmmm.” Lipshultz paused. “He could have killed you, you realize. The bruises on the back of your neck indicate that he had you in a headlock, a rather strong one at that. An adrenaline surge?”  
  
Gretchen nodded.  
  
“I’ll assume he intended to snap your neck,” Maurice Lipshultz surmised.  
  
She nodded again. “Fortunately, Kuryakin stopped him.”  
  
Finally, he stopped pressing the areas around her neck and smiled, feeling that the damage was superficial and would fade with the bruising.  
  
“I still can’t believe you permitted him to shower. He’s liable to injure himself further if he slips or falls unconscious. How would you know if he’s all right?”  
  
“Illya is accompanying him. And that covetous guard dog won’t let anything happen to his partner, believe me. Relax, Maurice. He’ll be fine,” Gretchen assured him. “It was a wise choice. His body odor was so bad, the pilot is probably fumigating his helicopter at this very moment. Besides, Napoleon promised to be cooperative with us if we allowed him this one small favor. And I don’t know if you’ve ever dealt with him before, but...”  
  
“Yes, I know him,” he snapped, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Solo can be a royal pain in the ass. Kuryakin is even worse.” He paused and looked her right in the eyes. “Why didn’t you take them to Munich instead of here?”  
  
Zeinreich just smiled sweetly and shrugged her shoulders. “Luck of the draw?” She unzipped Illya’s knapsack and pulled out the manila folder. “Anyway, I have Peter Hecht’s files now, and since my work is based in this facility, the data we have here...” she waved the file. “... along with Solo’s information will be a real boon for my studies. I also have a true sample of the drug and most of the chemicals we found in the lab.”  
  
Lipshultz grunted.  
  
“Come on, Maurice. Get a grip,” she chided, nudging him with her elbow. “Let’s go over these files while we have a few minutes.”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
As soon as Illya closed the bathroom door, Napoleon doubled over, clutching his belly with both arms. He grimaced, baring his teeth, trying not to cry out.  
  
Illya turned on the water to drown out any sounds Solo might make.  
  
“Damn, this hurts!” Napoleon hissed. He moaned slightly, wrapping his arms tighter around his midsection. Finally he was able to let down his guard and vent a little.  
  
He staggered towards the toilet and lowered the lid before sitting down. His torso was bent at the waist in an attempt to squelch the pain which had burned for days.  
  
Warm steam began filling the room.  
  
“Have you had anything at all to eat the past three days?” The Russian squatted down next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“No,” Solo gasped.  
  
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Kuryakin asked.  
  
Napoleon curtly nodded and held up a still shaky hand, silently asking his partner to stop questioning him.  
  
“Okay,” Illya said quietly. “Let me help you.”  
  
Napoleon peeled off his clothing piece by piece with his partner’s assistance. His chest and back showed bruises and welts, and Illya did notice several spots on Solo’s legs where he had been struck. Fortunately. Peter Hecht did not beat Solo with a vengeance. Under any other circumstances, their pain would have been relatively inconsequential, but not when amplified under the effects of Hecht’s drug.  
  
Illya stood up first and helped bring Napoleon to his feet. He propped Solo up against the bathroom wall and tested the temperature of the water before allowing him to enter. Tepid.  
  
Gretchen had taken them to one of the patient-room bathrooms, equipped with a bench in the shower stall. Napoleon staggered in and immediately plopped his rear on the seat.  
  
“Get yourself wet,” Kuryakin said as he drew the curtain across the stall, “while I find you a toiletries kit.”  
  
Illya looked in the cabinet beneath the sink and several drawers, then in a small closet outside the room before finding the small kit of soap, shampoo, and a razor, along with a toothbrush and toothpaste. He broke open the pack and re-entered the bathroom.  
  
“How are you doing in there?” he asked, pulling the curtain back a little to hand his partner the soap and shampoo. He reached to the towel bar and grabbed a washcloth as well.  
  
Napoleon was still hunched over, nursing his tender belly. He looked up and shrugged a little. “Not my finest moment.”  
  
“Do you need some help? I did offer to scrub your back if necessary.”  
  
“No, I think I can handle this,” he replied almost convincingly.  
  
“Okay. I’m right here if you need me.” Kuryakin paused and checked his watch. “Oh, you’d better hurry it along a bit. You have exactly six more minutes before Gretchen sends in her biggest, burliest orderly... and you know how precise she is.”  
  
“Oh, goody,” the CEA mumbled.  
  


  
Doctors Zeinreich and Lipshultz had just finished setting up when the Solo and Kuryakin walked into the exam room.  
  
“Aah, good timing, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Lipshultz announced, motioning for the CEA to hop up onto the examination table.  
  
Napoleon glided across the room, mustering whatever energy he could to appear more fit than he actually felt. He was upright and seemingly pain-free, alert and aware of his surroundings. A fine performance.  
  
A clean, white towel was fastened around his waist, another around his shoulders for warmth.  
  
Illya was acutely aware of his partner’s red-rimmed eyes trying not to squint in the brightness, the minutely strained inhalations, and the almost undetectable halting to Napoleon’s usually fluid stride. The Russian knew that a sledgehammer was probably pounding inside Solo’s skull while acid was actively eating away at his stomach. From past experiences, he knew that all Napoleon wanted at the moment was a cave... somewhere dark and quiet and warm to lick his wounds and heal.  
  
A man of his word, Napoleon obediently got on the examination table, hoping that both Gretchen and Maurice would conclude this as quickly as possible. The table’s head was re-adjusted to an upright position.  
  
“Are you feeling a little better?” Gretchen asked, a slight icy edge to her voice. She immediately regretted her demeanor.  
  
“Yes,” he replied, avoiding eye contact with her. For some strange reason, he still felt a little confused about the environment. He kept diverting his eyes to Illya, his only assurance that he was safe. “Gretchen, I...um...”  
  
“Yes?” she prompted, a little friendlier.  
  
He finally looked her in the eye. “I...I’m really sorry about...” Napoleon raised his right hand towards her neck. “...uh...” He felt at a loss for words. “I could have hurt you... or worse...”  
  
“No real harm done, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Lipshultz interrupted. “Just a little minor bruising.”  
  
“You remember Maurice Lipshultz, don’t you?” she asked, trying to break the awkwardness of the moment.  
  
“Yes, of course. He’s ...uh ... helped me out on more than one occasion.” The CEA forced a slight smile. He was unsure how much longer he could maintain his façade of ‘wellness’.  
  
“Well, we’re both going to be taking care of you today,” Gretchen said softly. She patted Napoleon’s hand which had just begun shaking. “It shouldn’t take too long.” She turned to Illya. “This is your cue to leave, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
Illya nodded. “Have you gotten everything you need from my knapsack?” he asked as he picked his up from the counter.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Before leaving, the Russian walked over to his partner one final time. “Now don’t give the doctors a hard time. You promised, remember?” Then he winked and left the room.  
  
“Just relax, Mr. Solo,” Dr. Lipshultz said in a compassionate tone. “Are you warm enough?”  
  
Napoleon did not respond immediately, then finally shook his head ‘no’. Maurice exited in search of a few blankets.  
  
“You can stop the tough-guy act, Napoleon,” Gretchen chided when Lipshultz left the room.  
  
Solo looked up, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“Oh, don’t give me that choirboy look. I know you feel like ‘death-warmed-over’ at the moment and you’re too damned stubborn to let it show. If you think that being stoic is going to get you released from my care any earlier, you’re sadly mistaken. You forget, I’ve done extensive research on this drug, not to mention the minor detail I helped your partner through it twice. Don’t bullshit me!”  
  
Dr. Lipshultz walked back in with two white cotton blankets. They covered a now-shivering Napoleon with them.  
  
Napoleon brought his knees to his chest and buried his face in the apex. His arms encircled his head, momentarily blocking out light and sound. The shaking began to consume him. But he felt some relief not having to conceal his distress any more.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Someone entered Napoleon’s room as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake him had he fallen asleep.  
  
The lights in the room were muted and the temperature was a little higher than usual. The form wrapped within the blankets trembled. An intravenous tube coming from beneath the covers attached to a bottle of fluid suspended above the bed.  
  
As soon as Napoleon was aware of someone’s presence, his body automatically froze. Although his rational side knew he was in a safe place, his fine-tuned, overly-sensitive warning system feared otherwise. He instinctively reached under his pillow for an UNCLE Special, and when he found none there, prepared to defend himself.  
  
“Good evening, Napoleon,” a very familiar voice greeted quietly.  
  
In the soft light, Napoleon looked up to see his partner standing by his bed. He immediately relaxed. The shaking returned.  
  
“It’s evening already?”  
  
“Well,” Kuryakin smiled. “technically it’s late afternoon.”  
  
Napoleon grunted.  
  
The Russian placed his hand on Solo’s face. It felt a little feverish. “How are you holding up?”  
  
“I feel horrible,” the CEA said softly. “This headache just won’t quit.”  
  
Illya understood.  
  
“And I assume you’re still hypersensitive.”  
  
Solo nodded a little.  
  
“Light and sound, no doubt. Have you had anything to eat or drink?”  
  
“Just water and some kind of chalky stuff that tried to pass for a milkshake.”  
  
“Aah - something to extinguish the acid bubbling up in your stomach.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
“Are you tired?”  
  
“No. I’m jumping out of my skin at the moment. I haven’t slept for three days and I’m nowhere near falling asleep.”  
  
“Did Gretchen or Maurice mention giving you anything to relax you?”  
  
“Not yet. She’s doing one last blood test before deciding what to do with me.”  
  
“Shall I stay for awhile?... or would you prefer to be alone?”  
  
Napoleon looked up at his partner and smiled a little. “Stay. I’d like the company.” An awful feeling of emptiness was eating away at him. Depressing him. “Know any good lullabies?”  
  
Illya sat on the edge of Napoleon’s bed, hesitated a few seconds then layed down on his back next to his partner.  
  
“I need to talk to you,” Kuryakin said quietly, rolling on his side to face Napoleon.  
  
“This sounds official.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“Can it wait? I’m not exactly in my CEA mode at the moment.”  
  
Illya sighed. “All right.” He rolled on to his back and placed both arms behind his head, stretching slightly.  
  
Silence.  
  
More silence.  
  
“Damn it, Illya. You should know better than to pull a guilt-trip on the infirmed.”  
  
Napoleon could almost feel Illya’s smirk.  
  
“I have a problem,” Illya whispered.  
  
“And you can’t take this up with Frederick Leydendecker or Mr. Waverly?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Okay, what is it?”  
  
“You know the files I picked up in Hecht’s lab?”  
  
“Hmmm - intimately.”  
  
Illya rolled on to his side again, meeting his partner face-to-face. “Well, there were two sets of files.”  
  
“Two?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“Two,” Illya confirmed. “One was Peter Hecht’s, and the other Gabriella Massamino’s.”  
  
Kuryakin could feel Napoleon’s anxiety rising.  
  
“So... so what’s the problem?” Napoleon asked tentatively.  
  
Illya slipped an arm around his partner’s shoulders, bringing the two of them a little closer.  
  
“When I was packing them in my knapsack, Massamino’s file accidentally slipped into a hidden compartment.” He words were barely audible.  
  
“Accidentally?”  
  
“Yes. You don’t think I would conceal evidence, do you?”  
  
“No... of course not. Go on.”  
  
“Gretchen took out Hecht’s file, but somehow overlooked Massamino’s. I discovered this oversight after I left the examination room.” Illya paused. “Are you sure you’re up for hearing all this?”  
  
“Illya...”  
  
“Okay, okay. I was on my way to hand over Massamino’s file when it ...um... accidentally fell into the shredder.”  
  
“Accidentally?” Solo’s voice rose a little.  
  
“Shhh! Keep your voice down, Napoleon. Yes, it was accidental. Do you think I’d be so careless as to shred documents on purpose?”  
  
Napoleon groaned a little. “So where are these shredded documents now?”  
  
Illya shifted his weight, raising himself up on his elbow. “I had all intentions of taping the files back together when they ...uh... accidentally got flushed down the toilet.”  
  
“Again accidentally?”  
  
“’Nature’ was calling, and by the time I got into the bathroom stall juggling all these shredded files...”  
  
“Say no more,” Napoleon sighed. “This could be a problem.”  
  
“I realize that. But I did read all the files before their untimely demise...” Illya saw Napoleon wince. “...so I could replicate them verbatim. Perhaps it would probably be faster if I recorded it and had one of Mr. Waverly’s or Herr Leydendecker’s secretaries do the transcribing. Regardless, they can be reconstructed.”  
  
Napoleon quietly laughed and shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”  
  
“As my immediate superior, though, I needed to inform you,” the Russian mused.  
  
“And I thank you for that kind consideration.” Solo lay quietly for a moment. “How bad was the report?”  
  
“Quite explicit. It contained more details about you than I really cared to know,” Illya chuckled. “I read both sets of files. At least Peter Hecht’s were more professional and clinically based.”  
  
Napoleon knew the contents of Gabriella Massamino’s report would be forever locked in a small corner of his partner’s brain, unattainable to UNCLE's or even Thrush’s most devious information seeking devices.  
  
They had only a few more moments to talk before Doctors Lipshultz and Zeinreich entered. Maurice stopped at the door, not expecting to see the agents laying together in the hospital bed - Napoleon wrapped in the blankets like a mummy and Illya close to him, lounging on his back with his arms crossed behind his head. Gretchen seemed unfazed and approached them immediately.  
  
She realized that Lipshultz was lagging behind.  
  
“Don’t read too much into this, Maurice,” she called over her shoulder. “Illya’s probably briefing Napoleon on his latest teleconference with Alexander Waverly.”  
  
“Not only is she beautiful and talented,” Illya explained to Dr. Lipshultz as he stood up, “but perceptive as well.”  
  
Gretchen moved close to Napoleon and removed the stethoscope from around her neck. She lowered the blankets to listen to his heartbeat.  
  
Maurice Lipshultz finally walked in, genuinely confused by Kuryakin’s closeness to Napoleon. He had honestly doubted that the Russian Ice Prince had the capacity for compassion.  
  
“So what’s the game plan?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“According to you latest bloodwork, Mr. Solo,” Maurice began, “the drug is slowly dissipating.”  
  
Illya’s eyebrows raised. “How slowly?”  
  
“Well, the drug is approximately 89.9% out of your system,” Gretchen chimed in.  
  
“Approximately?” Napoleon asked. “That sounds like a pretty specific percentage to be an approximation.”  
  
“I can’t say with complete certainty. There’s a .05% differential on either side of the figure I just gave you and...” she began to explain.  
  
Napoleon held up his hand. “Okay. I get the idea. So in plain language, what does that mean?”  
  
“It means that approximately 10.1% of Hecht’s drug is still in your bloodstream, considering, of course the .05% differential...” Gretchen stopped short when she saw Napoleon’s gaze turn to his partner.  
  
Illya just smirked.  
  
 _You’re perfect for each other_ , Solo thought.  
  
“What’s wrong, Napoleon?” she asked, genuinely confused.  
  
“In English, please!”  
  
“I believe what Dr. Zeinreich is trying to say,” Dr. Lipshultz interjected, “ is that we are now able to give you some relief. Enough of the drug is out of your system, and although its half-life is going to plague you for awhile, we can medicate you at this point.”  
  
“How long is ‘awhile’?” Illya scowled. He remembered feeling the drug’s effects for days.  
  
“Again, I can’t say with absolute certainty,” Gretchen said honestly. “But the effects will continually diminish.”  
  
“So back to my original question. What’s the game plan?” Solo repeated. All he wanted at this point was to sleep.  
  
Gretchen pulled a pre-filled syringe from the breast pocket of her lab coat. “I’d like to give you a sedative.” She paused, waiting for Napoleon’s reaction. When no explosive refusal followed her suggestion, she continued. “It’s strong, but the initial absorption rate is slower than other sedatives, so it won’t shock your system.”  
  
“How strong?” Illya asked, scowling again.  
  
Maurice Lipshultz spoke up. “Quite strong, Mr. Kuryakin. At the present time, your partner’s nerves are somewhat frayed from Hecht’s drugs and the lack of sleep. Obviously, if left on his own, he would eventually drift off. But I honestly doubt slumber in his condition would be restful, if he could stay asleep at all.”  
  
“How long will he be under?” The Russian abhorred the concept of forced sleep, for himself as well as his partner. Too many ‘things’ could go wrong.  
  
“I’d like to sedate him for at least twelve hours,” Dr. Lipshultz explained. “Dr. Zeinreich and I have gone over Mr. Solo’s case with a fine-toothed comb.” He turned his attention to Napoleon. “We both agree that the majority of your symptoms will subside after a good night’s sleep. Your body needs rest to start mending itself. Unfortunately, you may not be able to do that on your own, so we feel that this is the best treatment we can recommend.”  
  
“So?” Gretchen asked, a small smile turning up the corners of her lips.  
  
Napoleon sighed. “Go for it,” he finally said.  
  
Dr. Zeinreich uncapped her syringe and injected its contents into Napoleon’s IV tubing. “You’ll fall asleep in about ten minutes. It’ll feel very natural.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
The doctors remained another few minutes before turning to leave.  
  
Maurice Lipshultz looked at his watch. “How much longer are you staying?” he asked Gretchen as they neared the door.  
  
“About an hour. I have some paperwork to finish and a few files to update.”  
  
“Great! I’m on all night and I want to grab a bite to eat.” He turned around. “Good night, Mr. Solo. We’ll see you in the morning.” And then he left the room.  
  
“I’ll stop by to see how you’re doing before I leave, Napoleon. Hopefully, you’ll be out like a light.”  
  
“I’m looking forward to it,” he quipped.  
  
Illya sat back down on the edge of Napoleon’s bed once everyone had left.  
  
“So it looks like you may be out of commission for a little while, my friend,” Kuryakin said, smirking a little. “Should I alert the female population of New York to seek other companions for the immediate future?”  
  
Napoleon rolled his eyes a little. “You WOULD do that, wouldn’t you. I may take a hiatus ...a SHORT one perhaps... from carousing, but I wouldn’t go as far as to make a general announcement.”  
  
The Russian raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? It’s no problem taking out a full page ad in the _Times_ , you realize. I’ll bet Mr. Waverly has a few connections...”  
  
“Quite sure.” Napoleon chuckled. He was glad Illya wanted to stay until he fell asleep. His partner’s presence was comforting. “So what are your plans for the evening?”  
  
Kuryakin pointed to the plastic chair perched in corner of the room.  
  
“Surely you’re not planning to spend the night here, are you?” the CEA asked.  
  
“Well... yes, I am. ...I was.”  
  
Napoleon pointed to the chair. “In that?”  
  
“I’ve slept in worse places, Napoleon. I can survive one night in a plastic chair.”  
  
“Illya, shortly I’m going to be oblivious to everything around me for at least the next twelve hours. I’m sure Gretchen could put you up for the night.”  
  
“I’m sure she could, but...”  
  
“No ‘buts’. As your ‘immediate superior’, I’m ordering you to leave.” Solo’s eyes blinked purposefully, as if trying to ward off the oncoming sleep.  
  
Illya only smirked.  
  
“Doesn’t my auththor... arthur...”  
  
Illya watched the sedative take effect.  
  
“Authority?” the Russian offered.  
  
“Yes, thank you. Doesn’t that ...word... mean anything to you?”  
  
“Of course it does. And if it will help you sleep any better, I’ll see if Gretchen is offering her hospitality...”  
  
Napoleon giggled. “Among other things.”  
  
“...to me.”  
  
“Hmmmm.”  
  
Illya watched as his partner’s shaking subsided and body relaxed. The brown eyes closed. Napoleon’s breathing became slow and regular as he drifted off to sleep.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
By the time Illya emerged from the shower, Gretchen was sitting up in bed against the headboard, reading the novel she had started two nights before. The spaghetti straps from the pale blue satin nightgown hung loosely over her shoulders, showing the bruises around her neck. Her lower half was buried beneath the thick featherbett.  
  
She looked up and smiled at him, his hair still slightly damp, the towel draped around his hips. Unlike Napoleon, he _seemed_ so unfussy about his looks, and she wondered whether or not Illya knew exactly how attractive he really was.  
  
“You look exhausted,” she said, putting the book on her nightstand.  
  
Illya nodded. The past few days had been draining, both physically and emotionally. Fatigue began to set in after Napoleon was finally comfortable and sleeping. Safe. The Russian could now allow himself the luxury of relaxing himself.  
  
Gretchen pulled back the featherbett and silently offered Illya her bed. He very willingly crawled in.  
  
Before he lay down, she coaxed him to sit up and lean against her. Her knees drew up around him.  
  
Strong, nimble fingers began massaging his neck and shoulders. Illya’s head dropped forward, giving her more areas to massage, making himself more vulnerable to her touch. Gretchen was unaware that she was one of only a handful of people capable of helping the Russian’s defenses, a safeguard in his life and chosen profession, melt away.  
  
Any remaining stress began to drain. Exhaustion and a feeling of complete comfort filled the void.  
  
“Mmmmm,” he sighed. “If you keep this up much longer, I’m going to be a big disappointment tonight.”  
  
Gretchen kissed the back of his neck. She took in his scent - he smelled wonderful - fresh, almost... innocent.  
  
“Would you rather go to sleep?” Gretchen asked honestly.  
  
Illya lifted his head and rested it on her shoulder, his hair tickling her neck. He reached back and cupped the back of her head with his hand, bringing her lips closer to his until they met.  
  
Soft hands began caressing Illya’s chest, widening their scope until they met with the twist that tucked the towel around his waist. A soft moan settled in his throat as the hands released the tuck and opened the towel before sensually gravitating downward.  
  
Satin slid from behind him to alongside him. The gentle friction created by the soft, silky fabric ignited his senses. Illya rolled on his side to lay the front of his body against it, and as their bodies moved, the satin sent sparks through him.  
  
The Russian lavished her with long, sensual kisses, running his hands over the curves and contours of her body. Gretchen’s movements, her scent, her touches, her incredible receptiveness to his lovemaking only made him want to please her more.  
  
Gentle fingers began teasing the hairs in Illya’s groin. He moved his hips slightly so his erect cock would rest in those fingers. A throaty groan sounded from deep within him as Gretchen wrapped her hand around his penis, teasing the crown with her thumb and forefinger. All the while, their lips never parted.  
  
Illya reached for the hem of her nightgown and started tugging it, trying to unearth her luscious skin. She let him go and wriggled out of the satiny garment effortlessly before dropping it to the floor in a heap.  
  
He lunged at her like a cat and pinned her beneath him. He kissed her again, starting with her mouth but soon focused on her neck, then her shoulders, then her breasts, then her mouth again.  
  
Gretchen felt his knees gently separating her thighs. She could hardly wait for the surge of him entering her, pushing, pulsing, pushing harder. Her back arched when he did, and her chest swelled as she sucked in air. Sparks radiated from her groin, sending signals of pure pleasure throughout her body.  
  
As Illya continued, he began moving deeper and harder and faster. The sensations built in steady increments until they both climaxed in a hail of fireworks which rocked them to the core, leaving them gasping for air when the dust finally settled.  
  
When Gretchen finally found her voice, she giggled.  
  
“Definitely NOT a disappointment,” was all she could say.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Napoleon Solo woke on a warm, soft surface. His arms and legs were free to move at will. Nothing hurt or restrained him. The burning in his belly had ceased, as did the tremors and the blaring headache.  
  
He knew all this before even opening his eyes. He wanted as accurate an assessment of his situation as possible before showing wakefulness.  
  
Quiet voices in the distance became apparent. Two voices - one male, one female. He listened intently. The female’s voice he did not initially recognize, but the male’s voice, Illya’s voice, was like music to his ears.  
  
“...and I can’t believe you’re still sending postcards to Josef Chalkler,” Kuryakin was heard admonishing the female voice.  
  
“Oh, come on, Illya. Stop being such a prude,” she returned.  
  
The voice did sound familiar. After a quick mental rerun of his last wakeful moments, he realized where he was and to whom the voice belonged. Gretchen Zeinreich.  
  
“Prude?” Illya questioned.  
  
“Yes. I felt that by posting cards from different parts of the world would keep Chalkler and Thrush off my tail.”  
  
“Hmmm. Be careful, though, I would hate to think that...”  
  
Napoleon Solo grunted. “How in the world can you expect a guy to sleep with all this jabbering going on?” Solo muttered. “Have you no regard for the patients?”  
  
Gretchen and Illya stood up in unison and rushed to his side.  
  
“And good morning to you to, Napoleon,” Zeinreich chirped to the CEA. “Still feeling a little testy, I see.” She chuckled and moved in closer to get a better look at him.  
  
His eyelids opened fully and he smiled. His eyes were clear and bright, and most outward signs of the drug’s ravages were gone.  
  
“Did you sleep well?” Illya asked, sitting on the other side of the bed and placing his hand on his partner’s shoulder.  
  
“Like the dead. How long was I out?”  
  
“The sedative I gave you should have lasted ten to twelve hours,” Gretchen explained, “but you were asleep for over sixteen. Do you feel rested?”  
  
Napoleon shook his head, still drowsy. “Not completely.”  
  
“Well, the drug’s half life is going to stay with you a little longer. We’ve been introducing more of the antidote in your IV line to neutralize it, but Hecht had used so much of it that it will be a while until all the effects are gone.”  
  
Solo curled up his nose. “How long are we talking about?”  
  
“I’d say you need about two more days before you’re basically back to normal.”  
  
“Two days?” Solo balked. The thought of being stuck in Medical, regardless of the fact that he was still not up to par, annoyed him.  
  
“Yes. During that time, I have a ton of questions for you.”  
  
“Wonderful,” he muttered.  
  
“Oh, come on, Napoleon,” she chided. “When was the last time you had the opportunity to be an integral part of a medical study?”  
  
Illya Kuryakin tried suppressing a grin. He knew Gretchen had read Peter Hecht’s files thoroughly and was well aware of the nature of his contents. He was curious how Gretchen would handle the sensitive topic of the file’s sexual nature without totally humiliating his partner any further.  
  
The CEA grunted again, basically wanting no part of this. He was hoping to leave the past few days behind him and forget that Gabriella Massamino and Peter Hecht ever existed. But he knew the reality and was quite accustomed to debriefings, although they were generally of a less awkward, personal nature.  
  
“Consider it one of your many conquests, Napoleon,” Kuryakin said pan-faced. “Just another nameless, pretty face, in a sea of nameless, pretty faces.”  
  
Napoleon rolled his eyes. “They are NEVER nameless,” he chuckled, winking.  
  
Gretchen Zeinreich stood up.  
  
“I’ve got work to do, gentlemen,” Gretchen said. She turned to Napoleon and patted his hand. “You I’ll see later. Get some rest, all right?”  
  
Napoleon nodded.  
  
Before leaving, Gretchen walked over to Illya and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “And you I’ll see after that.”  
  
The blonde doctor walked away while the two UNCLE agents watched her form disappear as the door slid shut.

**FINIS**


End file.
